


The Little People

by Simbeline_the_Merchant



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drama, Elsewhere Fic, F/M, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hobbit Courting, Hobbit Culture & Customs, Hobbits, Romance, Scouring of the Shire, Slow Burn, The Shire, The Troubles, the Year of Occupation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:47:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 170,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23952544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Simbeline_the_Merchant/pseuds/Simbeline_the_Merchant
Summary: A Hobbit farmhand is preparing to marry her sweetheart. Her sister is looking for a new life. A Took lass is trying to become a proper lady. Things start to crumble when they fall for the wrong people and the occupation of the Shire creeps over the land. As life gets harder they will have to save whatever they can, however they can. Everything will change, including themselves.
Relationships: Original Female Character(s)/Original Male Character(s)
Kudos: 5





	1. By the Bywater

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally posted on fanfiction.net. Due to said website’s recent inclusion of mid-chapter ads, I’ve decided I might as well start posting it on here too. I don’t have the patience to upload all the chapters in one go, so I'll just be adding one or two a day over the next couple of weeks, after which I’ll be posting one new chapter a month. Cheers for dropping by and stay safe <3.

_“And hungry as hunters, the Hobbit children,_

_The laughing-folk, the little people.”_

—The Long List of the Ents

* * *

The sun rose on Bywater. It did it’s best to fight the chill that hung in the air, and which only promised to get worse as the month wore on. When the light struck the Pool it shattered into hundreds of dancing pieces, and lit up the rocks in the shallows at the water’s edge. It was one of those crisp September days, cool but not unpleasant. The frost that lined the dying leaves was already melting in the new sunlight, though only a few trees had started to put their autumn colours on. There was already life in the streets, as Hobbits dragged themselves from sleep and quietly set to their jobs, housework and breakfasts, every one as well-meaning and closeminded as any Hobbit to be found in the Shire.

A small queue had already organised itself by the pump at the west end of Pitcher Way. The group chatted openly, and each Hobbit had his or her mind focused almost entirely on their own life, as their day unfolded itself before them. None of them considered that their neighbour was thinking of themselves in exactly the same way. This was the way it had always been.

One Hobbit lass—her name was Lavender—was stood a little way away, waiting. After a while another Hobbit came along the road from the east side of Bywater with an empty bucket under one arm, a less empty basket in the crook of the other and a light, dancing step. Lavender smiled as the newcomer approached.

“You’re in good spirits, Meg,” she said. “You been at the drink?”

“Not yet,” Meg said as they made their way to the back of the queue. She rested her bucket on the ground and fumbled with the basket.

Lavender held her own basket out while Meg filled it with eggs. “You won’t be scything off your own foot then?”

Meg grinned. “Even I’m not that stupid. There’s eleven there, ‘cus the twelfth got stepped on. So that’s…” She looked up as if reading from an inner script. “Tuppence three farthings.”

Lavender produced four small bronze coins from a coin purse. “You worked that out quick,” she said, handing the coins over and settling the basket back on her arm. “For you.”

“I asked Clover afore I left the hole. She’s good at that sort of thing. Sorry about the broken one.”

“We’ll manage. How is Clover?”

Meg shrugged. “Don’t rightly know. She comes out with all this stuff I don’t properly understand…”

By now they’d reached the front of the queue. Lavender set her bucket beneath the spout and began to work the pump handle. “It’s not up to you to worry about Clover. Or any of them.”

Meg leaned against the pump and sighed. “Of course I’m worried. She’s my sister.”

Meg Delver was the eldest of twelve children. The result was that from a young age Meg had needed to become almost a second mother to the younger of her siblings. Lavender was the middle of three, and had never felt any particular responsibility towards her brother or her sister. Meg smiled sadly. “How’s your lot?”

“Much the same. Rose went to help mum with Mrs Appleton, and ended having to stay with her near the whole night. Poor thing’s still in bed.”

“Primrose, Mrs Appleton or the babe?”

Lavender chuckled. “All three, probably.”

“Lad or lass?”

“Lass. So some good came of it.” They switched places. Lavender heaved her full bucket out of the way, sloshing some of the water over the side.

“They were both all right, though, weren’t they?”

“Course they were. Wouldn’t be telling you about it otherwise.”

Meg nodded while she pushed the pump handle. “Rose going into midwifeing then?”

“Not until she’s older, I don’t think. Mum just wants someone to pass her skills onto, and she knows they’d be wasted on me.” Meg tried to picture Lavender as a midwife, but found it impossible. “And I don’t imagine many mothers would be happy with Nick coming to tend them,” Lavender added.

Meg laughed, her dimples growing deeper. “That’s a shame. He’s a sweet lad, I’m sure he’d take right to it.”

“Ha!” There was a brief silence, and Lavender leaned in, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “Jonson han’t mentioned any other lasses, has he?”

Meg frowned. “No.” They moved out of the way to let the next Hobbit in line use the pump.

“Just I heard he’d gone off with Bluebell Ansley from Overhill way.”

Meg hesitated before replying. Bluebell’s married sister lived on the same street as her own family, and Jonson always took a keen interest whenever she visited. But what they’d done together, if anything, was unknown to Meg. _Hopefully it’ll stay that way_ , she thought. “Mayhap. But I ain’t sure, sorry.”

“Huh.” Lavender pursed her lips. “If he has I’ll cut his bloody head off.”

“Fair enough. But you have to give us the head back, so’s we can bury him.”

“I can’t promise nothing. See you at the festival later?”

“Course. It’s been a good harvest this year, I want my reward.”

“Looking forward to it. See you later.”

They hugged briefly and separated, Lavender going downhill, back towards her home, and her father’s wheelwright’s workshop. Meg, meanwhile, went back the way she came. She was trying hard to stop herself grinning like a fool as she walked. It was difficult. She took in the birds singing, the dirt beneath her feet and the clusters of colour from the last of the wild flowers. Today would be a good day.

The Delver hole was towards the centre of East Warren Lane. To her right was a row of small wooden cottages, and a line of birch trees. To her left was a hill, and a shabby row of Hobbit-holes. These weren’t the grand, homely smials that lay along the north bank of the Pool, but primitive holes that had existed for centuries with very little renovation. The boards over the floors were uneven, and all that covered the dirt walls was bare brickwork. They each had a small garden, though they were primarily kitchen gardens, with few flowers. No Hobbit would choose to live in holes like these, if they had the choice. 

Meg reached Number 12 East Warren Lane; her home. There was a chestnut tree growing in the front right corner of the lawn, which was in a constant state of disarray thanks to the flock of chickens that lived in a rickety henhouse. They had one window, like around half of the holes on the Lane. The other half had no windows at all. The fifth Delver child, Rob, was sat on the front doorstep smoking. Even from the road Meg could hear the chatter of voices inside. “You all right there?” she asked brightly when they met on the step.

“Aye,” he said.

She stepped around him gingerly, made more difficult by the bucket. “Don’t finish up the pipe-weed. They didn’t have any left at market yesterday.”

Rob shrugged. “There’ll be more today.”

Meg smiled in the doorway, considered ruffling Rob’s brown curls, and then thought better of it. Inside, the hole was buzzing with life. When she’d left for the pump the only ones awake besides herself were her parents, Jack (third Delver child), and Clover. Now everyone was awake and seemed to be on a mission to make as much noise as possible. On her way to the kitchen she dodged the twins when they ran down the main passage at full pelt. “Steady now, lads!”

The younger twin wailed over his shoulder to her, “He’s got my boat!”

“Give him his boat, Danny,” she called after them as they ran into the parlour.

When she stepped into the kitchen, she could just hear Danny saying, “It’s _our_ boat!”

Most of the kitchen was taken up with a collection of mismatched chairs, as well as three tables that had been pushed together to make one long table. At the moment they were littered with bowls, cups and, in the centre, a large pot, nearly scraped clean of porridge. Meg’s mother was sweeping around the feet of assorted brothers and sisters. Maizey, Hender and Poppy were sat at the table and in deep conversation, while Jonson, the exception, was leaning against a kitchen cupboard and sipping tea in silence. He smiled at Meg when she came in.

“Morning,” he said.

“Morning yourself,” Meg said. “Lavender ain’t happy with you,” she added. With trembling arms she rested the bucket on the centre table. “I got the water, Mum.” She dropped the money Lavender had given her into a jar on the sideboard.

“Why’s that then?” Jonson asked, setting his cup down.

“Thank’ee, Meg.” Mrs Delver stopped her sweeping and smiled. Her dark hair was already starting to come loose from its bun. “Can you get Myrtle in here to start on the bowls?”

“Will do.”

“What do you mean, ‘ain’t happy’?” Jonson said.

Meg smiled to herself as she turned to leave the room. “You’ll find out this evening.”

Behind her she heard him call her name, followed by the patter of feet on wood when he followed her out to the corridor. “Tell me what she said.”

There were shrieks from the parlour. Meg rolled her eyes and marched towards the doorway, saying as she did, “You should bloody know, she’s your lass.”

The fight for the boat had turned into a screaming match between the twins and Martin, the youngest Delver. Jack was attempting to hold the boat out of their reach while their father, who was struggling to separate them, said, “If you can’t share properly, no one gets the boat.”

“Here,” Meg said, holding out a hand. “Want me to hide it somewhere?”

Jack handed her the toy and gave her a relieved look. “Cheers, Meg.”

Jack and her dad held back the wailing children as she left. Jonson was waiting for her in the corridor. “You’re meant to take my side,” he said.

“You’re my brother, not my friend,” she said while he followed her on her way to the lasses’ bedroom. “I need to take Lavender’s side, since she can get rid of me if she wants. But you’re stuck with me no matter what I do.” Inside, Myrtle was searching for something with a panicked energy. Half of her hair was braided, tied with a green ribbon, while the other half was hanging loose over her left shoulder. “What are you looking for?” Meg asked.

“My other ribbon! I left it in the box on the dresser, but it’s not there now!” Myrtle said, scrabbling under one of the beds.

Meg searched through the ribbon box, but found only yellows and blues. “Does it really matter if your ribbons don’t match?”

“Yes!” Myrtle wailed. Now she was sifting through the dolls in the trunk at the foot of her and Poppy’s bed.

Jonson was leaning against the doorway with folded arms and watching the scene with disinterest. “Come on. You’d want to know if I said something about Winden. For the love of— Calm down, Mert, it’s only a ribbon.”

“But it’s _my_ ribbon.”

“I wouldn’t do anything to upset Winden. Look.” Meg removed the ribbon that was holding back her own brown curls. “It’s not the same shade of green, but will it do?”

Myrtle stopped, trembling slightly. “Maybe.”

Meg knelt down and speedily plaited Myrtle’s loose hair. “There. Mum needs you in the kitchen.”

“Thank’ee,” she mumbled, and scurried out of the room.

Meg went to the toy box, and dropped the toy boat in among the dolls. She looked back over at Jonson. “You still here?”

“No.”

She stood up straight looked around the empty room, suddenly alert. “Where’s Clover?”

“Not here, I guess.”

She pushed past him, back into the corridor. “Aye, very helpful.”

“Well, _you_ ain’t being helpful. How can you be sure you’ll not upset Winden?”

“I’m not a rake.”

“He is, though,” Jonson said darkly.

“Was.” Already halfway to the front door, Meg called to him over her shoulder, “Mayhap you could ask Bluebell Ansley what’s up with Lavender.” She smiled to herself when she heard Jonson swear. Rob was just coming in from outside. “Has Clover gone already?”

“Just afore you got back.”

“Right.” She grabbed a sunhat from the coat stand and stood in the doorway. “I’m going now, Mum. See you this evening,” she called.

Meg rushed down the garden path and uphill, towards Boffin’s Farm. She tried to go as fast as she could without actually running, but her muscles were already aching. _This probably wasn’t a good idea_ , she thought. Her heart was pounding when she saw a familiar Hobbit ahead of her on the road. “Wait!” she called.

The Hobbit stopped her lonely journey and turned to look at Meg. It was Clover, the oldest of her little sisters. She watched silently while Meg caught up, her face passive, her hands still and tense. When Meg reached level with her, she doubled over, gasping for air. “You can walk quick when you w—” She was interrupted by a coughing fit.

Clover ran a soothing hand up and down Meg’s back. “Easy…” she said softly.

Nothing else was said until Meg had recovered. She straightened up and patted down her hair. “Sorry about that. I’ll be coughing up hairballs next.”

Clover said nothing.

“You’re eager to get to work,” Meg said as they carried on up the road. “Looking forward to the festival?”

“Not really.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry.”

A prickly silence fell. Meg itched to fill it but struggled to think of anything. Finally Clover said, “Why did you tire yourself out trying to catch up with me? Why din’t you just let me go by myself?”

She shrugged and looked up at the clouds. “I thought you might like someone to talk to.”

“What if there wasn’t anything I wanted to talk about?”

“There’s always something, with you,” Meg said. When it became obvious Clover didn’t want to reply she added, “You’ll feel better for talking about it.”

Clover seemed to think about this for a while, and then said, “Do you ever think about work and how it’s forever?”

Meg tried to come up with an adequate response, but in the end just settled for, “Not really.”

Clover’s fingers started to clasp and unclasp, and her eyes seemed to be staring right through the trees and hills ahead of them. “We started work at the farm when we was nine, and we’re still working there now. And then that’s it. There’s nothing else. We spend our whole lives on the farm and we die.”

“It’s not forever,” Meg replied, with forced cheer. “Just until you’re wed.”

The way Clover’s expression changed suggested this last comment was worse than saying nothing. “Then my children’ll go to work on a farm when they’re nine and stay there until they’re dead or married. And their children too. Why?”

“Someone has to work on the farms.”

“But why _us_?”

They were just down the lane from the farm gates now.

“Look.” Meg stopped in the road and clasped Clover’s shoulders. “Work don’t matter. What matters is you’ll marry a lad who’ll love you, and then you’ll have little’uns who’ll love you. And that’ll be enough to be happy.”

Clover recoiled slightly. Meg had an odd, desperate look in her eyes, and her nails were digging into Clover’s shoulders. “If you say so,” she said, trying to keep her voice level.

The desperation disappeared from Meg’s eyes and she suddenly pulled Clover into a hug. “You know you’re loved, don’t you?” she said.

Clover did her best to hug her sister back, and buried her face in her shoulder, “Of course. Do you?”

Meg let go and although she smiled, her eyes did not meet Clover’s. “Oh, I don’t matter.”

Clover’s brow furrowed. “What?”

But Meg was already continuing towards the farm. “Look, Master Sango’s at the gate. Let’s see if he’ll get our names right today.” She laughed.

Clover silently stood and watched her sister for a moment. Then she followed her to the gate of the farm, and the golden wheat fields beyond.

* * *

The largest and homeliest smials in Bywater were built along the north side of the Pool. One of them had been the home of Holtbold Took until his death some years previously. He had relocated to Bywater from the ancestral home of the Tooks, citing ‘too many relatives’ as his primary reason for the change. The best smials all being on the same row presented Holtbold’s two sons, Hortenbold and Aferbold, with a problem. They had to either become neighbours, live below their means, or leave Bywater all together, none of which were inviting prospects. In the end the brothers had compromised by each taking a hole on opposite ends of the row, Hortenbold on the east and Aferbold on the west. This left them far apart enough that they didn’t step on each other’s toes, but close enough that they met on a regular basis, and that their own children treated their uncle’s house the same as they treated their own.

The brothers had divided their father’s belongings between them and, among other things, Aferbold had taken the framed family tree of the Tooks that Holtbold had commissioned. At the top was Isembold Took and his wife, Rue Goodbody. It showed their nine children, forty-one of their grandchildren, fifty-two of their great-grandchildren and even thirteen great-great-grandchildren. They had more, but the tree didn’t show the descendants of daughters. Tiger Lily often looked at the tree, and knew that her children would be among those absent.

The pale, early sunlight was peering through the window of the morning room were Tiger Lily sat alone, her chin rested in her hand and her book left, forgotten, on her lap. She was staring at the tree again, where it hung above the fireplace. Her eyes were fixed on her own entry, which reduced her to nothing more than one name in a sea of Tooks, the same as any other. Tiger Lily felt small at the best of times, but when she looked at the tree, she felt entirely dwarfed. Metaphorically speaking.

She could almost feel herself being sucked in.

Someone came in through the front door, but she didn’t hear them.

“Away with the fairies, are we?” a voice said, making Tiger Lily jump.

She looked over at her cousin Opal, who was leaning against the doorway, a closed parasol rested on her shoulder. Tiger Lily closed her book and leaned back on the settee. “I was reading.”

“Mmm. You looked enthralled.”

“How is Buffo?” Tiger Lily said, putting just the right amount of distaste in her voice as revenge for the comment about the fairies.

“The same as ever,” Opal said. She flopped into an armchair. “I don’t care that you don’t like him. Did you have any plans or were you just going to waste the day away, staring into space?”

Tiger Lily smoothed out her skirts. “I’m going to go to the farm to help Sango with the harvest festival. His parents are at a wedding today.”

“I might go with you, if that’s all right. For want of anything more interesting. What time were you going up there?”

“Half-past eleven, I said.”

Opal glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “You’re aware it’s quarter past?”

Tiger Lily’s head whipped away from Opal to look at the clock. “Oh no…” She got to her feet, knocking her book on the floor in her haste, and rushed to the front door. Opal followed her at a leisurely pace. “I’m going now,” Tiger Lily called down the empty main corridor.

Her father stepped out of his study and said, “You’ll be back in time to go hunting, won’t you?”

She didn’t look up from where she was wrestling a parasol out of the umbrella stand. “Oh, yes, of course.”

“Good.” Mr Took smiled. “Have fun.”

“I will.”

She dashed out. Opal followed her. “Goodbye, Uncle Aferbold,” she said.

Tiger Lily was hurrying up the lane, taking quick little steps. Opal strode after her and managed to keep abreast of her while seemingly putting in half the effort. The air hummed with dragon flies, which weaved between the nodding reeds.

“Are you going to stay for any of the actual festival, or will you come straight back once it starts?” Opal asked.

Tiger Lily didn’t look at her when she said, “I’ll probably come back as soon as I can.”

“You are such a wallflower. You’ll have to come down eventually, you know.”

“From where?”

“The wall, of course.”

“Oh. It’s not that,” Tiger Lily said quickly. “I just want to be back in time.”

“You don’t have to be, though. Not if you don’t want to.”

“I do want to.” She looked at the clouds lazily crawling overhead. Her gaze was only brought back to land when a fight broke out among some of the ducks that lived on the banks of the Pool. “This will be one of the last good evenings of the year. And I’ve decided I’m not going to carry on shooting next year.”

“Yes,” Opal said, an edge of scepticism in her voice. “You said that last year, if I remember rightly. And the year before that.”

“I know. But this year is definitely the last. I am resolved.”

“Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

Tiger Lily said nothing for a while. She opened and shut her mouth a few times, but made no noise. Finally, she said, “Why did you stop?”

Opal shrugged. “I grew up. I lost interest.”

“I keep on telling myself that this time will be the last.” Tiger Lily was looking at the trees that bordered the road as though they were the most interesting things in the world. “But it’s so easy to say that every evening.”

“Then don’t concern yourself with changing. Be an archer until the day you die, if it makes you happy.”

Tiger Lily turned her head to look at Opal for the first time since they’d set out. “But I’m not—”

“—and you are not Father!”

Opal and Tiger Lily halted and turned to look at the hole they had just passed, where another lass had stormed out of a hole, face red, leaving the door wide behind her. There was a sign on the front lawn. It said in large letters, ‘Grubb and Sons’. Beneath this, in smaller letters, it said, ‘A Family Firm’.

A lad, older than the lass, stepped onto the threshold, one hand against the doorframe. “Come back here!” he bellowed.

The lad froze when he saw the cousins silently watching. “Hello, Miss Took.” He nodded at Opal, and then at Tiger Lily. “And Miss Took.”

Opal bobbed a curtsey. “Hello, Mr Grubb.”

Tiger Lily averted her eyes to look at the ground, and said nothing.

Mr Grubb silently retreated back into the hole, while the lass approached them, smoothing down her tight, dark curls. “He’s so horrid sometimes,” she said.

“Is everything all right, Abelia?” Opal asked.

“Oh, fine. Relatively speaking, of course. Dalgo’s just being a twit. Where are you two going then?”

“The festival up at Boffin’s Farm,” Opal said. Out of the corner of her eye she could see that Tiger Lily’s shoulders had tensed, and she was gripping her parasol with pale-knuckled hands.

“Do you mind if I join you?” Abelia asked. “I need to get out.”

They walked together, around the pool and over the Water Bridge. Abelia and Opal talked about anything and everything: the festival, the Boffins, the weather, Buffo… Tiger Lily remained painfully silent.

Inside the Grubb hole, Dalgo was standing in the main corridor, back to the wall, eyes closed.

“A fine job,” a second lad said. “Hopefully Abbie will come home today.”

Dalgo opened his eyes and scowled at his brother, who was watching him from his study, arms folded. “You can shut up as well,” he said.

“Pardon me. I’m sure you know best.” Monno grabbed a cloak from the stand. “I’m going to the Harlow wedding. I trust you have your list of appointments today, because I’m not checking for you.”

“It doesn’t matter what you think. I’m still the master of this smial,” Dalgo said.

Monno shot him a withering look. “And much joy may it bring you.” With that he left the hole, not looking back.

“That’s not fair,” Dalgo called as he watched him leave. “You know that’s not fair, you sorry—”

“That’s no way to talk to family,” a cracked voice said from the morning room. “When I was a lass—”

Dalgo leaned through the doorway, where Old Mrs Grubb was sat with Petunia, her pale-faced attendant and maid of all work. The sun cast shadows in the deep lines on her face. “You’re no longer a lass, Grandmother. Please stop telling us everything was better when you were.”

“Well! You come over here, my lad, so’s I can—”

He didn’t stop to hear what she was going to do. He didn’t stop at all until he was in his own study. When he was there he slammed the door, threw his spectacles onto the desk, and sat heavily on his chair. Slowly, he curled up, and grasped at his hair, trembling with tension. His breathing didn’t slow at all. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been in that position for when there was a timid knock at the door.

“Go away,” he said, letting go of his hair and straightening up so that he was only a little slouched.

“It’s me, sweetheart,” the visitor said.

“Oh.” He rushed to put his spectacles on. “Sorry.”

His mother was calm, as she always was. She sat in a chair opposite his, and looked at him in a way that made Dalgo feel like a visitor in his own quarters. He thought that one day he would have to learn the secret of how she managed it, so he could do it himself. Still refusing to say anything, she removed her own spectacles and cleaned them with her handkerchief. She did this in such a way that implied that, even though she was the one who had approached him, it was up to him to wait for her to be ready to speak.

Finally she replaced her spectacles, took a deep breath, and said, “I don’t like how you spoke to Abelia.”

He tried to draw himself up to his full height while remaining sat. He told himself that he was a grown Hobbit, and not a young lad anymore. “I think I was reasonable.”

She raised her eyebrows, as if to say, _‘You don’t really believe that, do you?’_

“If I was being unreasonable, so was she,” he said quickly. “She knows Rico Boffin is a cad, and I’m sure she’s only courting him to vex me. You needn’t look at me like that.”

“She’s a tweenager, she’ll do as she does.” Young Mrs Grubb sighed and leaned over the desk to take her son’s hands. “I know you’re trying to do what you think is best, as head of this household,” she said. There was a slight edge to the way she said ‘head of this household’, which Dalgo couldn’t quite interpret. “But I’ve already lost my husband. I don’t want the rest of you to break apart.”

Dalgo looked down, all self-importance gone. He squeezed his mother’s hand.

“I know,” she whispered. “You’re doing very well with the firm, and the family. Most of the time.”

He felt deep in his person that this wasn’t true. Everyone seemed to have been able to get back to some semblance of normality. Everyone but him, at least. He still didn’t feel properly able to register deaths. He did it, though. For the firm. He had to. Registering births was also difficult, and officiating weddings was impossible. Monno had lost patience with him on this last point. ‘You’re not fit to be seen,’ he’d said, the last time Dalgo had been sent to a wedding. ‘You could at least smile.’ After that, Monno had taken it upon himself to officiate all weddings that came their way.

Dalgo swallowed and made eye contact with his mother again. “Thank you,” he said quietly. After a short pause, he added, “Sorry.”

“You have my forgiveness, but not Abelia’s.” She let go of his hands. “I was meaning to speak with you on an unrelated matter,” she said. “Petunia’s leaving us.”

“Oh.” He rested his chin in his hand. “Finally had enough of Grandmother, has she?”

“She’s getting married,” Young Mrs Grubb said disapprovingly, “so we have four weeks to find someone else.”

“They’ll need a strong constitution.”

“She’s not that bad.”

There was another knock at the door and Petunia poked her head around the door. “Begging your pardon,” she said, “but there’s a Mr Landon here to register the birth of his latest.”

“Oh, yes.” Dalgo looked down at the assortment of papers on his desk, and the hitherto ignored schedule of appointments. “Send him in.” He looked on his mother as she made to leave. “I’ll apologise to Abelia when she gets home. And I’ll be more civil with her in the future.”

“All I ask is that you try.”

When she left he took the moment of solitude to look up at the portrait of his father that hung on the wall. It had been painted a good few years before his death, but was the most lifelike image of him. There was still a blush in his cheeks, and a slight smile on his mouth. Dalgo didn’t like to think how they looked now. The only thing wrong were the eyes, which looked forward vacantly and, despite the best efforts of the artist, were dull and cold.

“Sorry,” Dalgo said, not quite to himself.


	2. Earth and Sun

Boffin’s Farm was heaving with workers. There was less than a field left to reap, and everyone was eager to get the job done for the start of the festival. Golden seams of freshly cut wheat crossed the field, waiting to be taken in, and there was still more to go. At the very end of the field was the barn, and to the East of that was the Boffin family home. The two Took lasses and Abelia walked daintily between the rows of wheat, parasols open and petticoats rustling. They passed a group of reapers made up of Delver lasses. When she was sure she was out of their eye line Clover stopped her work, and rested on the handle of her scythe. She watched them as they made their way towards the farmhouse, a faraway look on her face.

“You all right there?” Meg said, rubbing her aching shins.

“They’re like butterflies, ain’t they?” Clover said. “Or blossoms.”

“Eh?”

“Delicate, and colourful, and clean. They hardly touch the ground.” She heaved her scythe up and got back to work. “Not like us.”

“Don’t get taken in, sister,” Maizey said. “They may dress pretty, but they use the privy like the rest of us.”

Poppy wrinkled her nose in disgust. “D’you have to be so vulgar?”

“I’m only telling the truth.”

“Don’t mean you should.”

Maizey took a moment join Clover in watching the trio. “Why’d they need parasols anyway? It’s not as though they’re out all day like us. Why don’t we get parasols?”

“‘Cus they don’t need to do nothing besides looking pretty,” Meg said, and grinned. “Besides, we don’t have enough hands for a scythe and a parasol.”

There was a brief silence and then Maizey said, “If they’re flowers, what are we?”

A small smile appeared on Clover’s face, despite her best efforts to hide it. “Turnips,” she said.

The three butterfly lasses were oblivious to this commentary. Abelia watched as they passed another cluster of labourers. “I wouldn’t like to work all day like they do,” she said, taking care to keep her voice low. “Though I suppose it must be nice to be out in the fresh air all day.”

“I don’t imagine all that sun would do my hair much good,” Opal said, running a hand through the loose black curls that fell to her shoulder.

“I can see Sango,” Tiger Lily said, and pointed to a gentlehobbit stood between the barn and the farmhouse. It was the first time she’d spoken since they’d left North Bank Row. “Rowley!” she called, waving to him.

“Oh, for goodness sake.” Opal grabbed her hand and pulled it down. “Anyone would think you hadn’t seen him for months.” Out of the corner of her eye she could see Abelia smirking. “What’s funny?”

“Oh, nothing,” she said. “I was just thinking you didn’t have to be so hard on her. After all, there’s nothing wrong with having one very good friend.”

There was something about the choice of the word ‘one’, rather than ‘a’ that Opal didn’t like. She looked over at Tiger Lily. Her shoulders were hunched and tense, and she was staring at an invisible point in the distance. The overall impression was that she was trying to retreat into her non-existent shell.

The young gentlehobbit, who had returned Tiger Lily’s wave with a smile, was coming to meet them. Sango Boffin always managed to put those who met him in mind of a lapdog puppy, being too mindlessly cheerful for his own good. Now within hearing distance he said, “Hello, ladies. If you’re here to see Rico, I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment.” He addressed this last comment to Abelia specifically.

“Blast. Do you know where he might be?” she said.

“No, sorry.”

“Ah well, I won’t take up any more of your time,” she said. “Goodbye Opal. Lily. It was nice walking with you both.” With that she trotted off back towards the farm gate.

“So what can I do for you, Miss Opal?” Sango asked, rubbing his hands together.

“I’m here to help with the festival, unlike some,” she said. “How’s it all going so far?”

“Well enough, well enough,” he said. “There have been a few problems, though. The bailiff’s ill, and Rico’s being… himself. I’m glad you’re both here, because otherwise it’s really just me on my own. Opal, if you could see how Cook’s managing— Oh dear.” He had spotted Mr Delver, who was approaching them with a grim expression on his face. “Yes, Jon?”

“The front right wheel’s gone on the cart, sir,” he said.

Sango looked over at the cart, which was a little way off and loaded with sheaves of wheat. The ponies were still harnessed in, and there was a group of lads gathered around it, looking at Sango expectantly.

“Uh…” Sango covered his face with his hands and leaned back.

“I’ll just be off to the kitchens, shall I?” Opal said.

Sango removed his hands and straightened up. “Yes, you do that. Jon, you and the others unload what’s already on the cart and bring it into the barn by hand. I’ll have a look in a second.”

“As you say, sir.”

Mr Delver and Opal went off in opposite directions, leaving Tiger Lily and Sango alone together. The pair had met when they were six and seven respectively, and neither could remember a time before the other had been there.

Sango smiled sadly, and then rested his head against Tiger Lily’s shoulder. She patted his back. “There, there.”

“Make it all go away,” he said into her collarbone. “Can you do that?”

She looked up at the sky. “No, sorry. It’ll all be over by tomorrow,” she said. “You’re managing beautifully. I wouldn’t be able to cope with all of this.”

“I’m just pretending to know what I’m doing.” He straightened up and smiled again, happily this time. “Hopefully the wheelwright will send his older daughter. You know. Lavender.”

“Oh, yes. Her.” Sango had admired her for some time, though he had yet to talk to her about anything other than wheels. “I forgot you’re a great lover.”

“The greatest.” His grin was brighter than the sun.

“The reason I’d forgotten,” she continued and folded her arms. “Is that it’s been so long since I’ve seen you with a lass.”

“Quality over quantity, my dear. I meant courtships,” he added quickly when he saw Tiger Lily’s expression. “Not the lasses themselves.”

“Good.”

“I’d better see what’s happened.” He started to head towards the cart. “I’ll only be a minute,” he called to her over his shoulder.

Tiger Lily was left alone at the edge of the field. She felt awkward and out of place. Although, she reflected sadly, feeling awkward and out of place was what she was best at. Nervously, she started to scratch at the handle of her parasol with her nails.

She watched Sango inspect the wheel, and speak to Mr Delver, though she couldn’t hear what they were saying from that distance. The lads had started unloading the cart and were carrying the wheat to the barn. Mr Delver unstrapped one of the ponies and started to lead it away to the stables. Sango called over a young lad of about ten, and handed him a piece of paper, pointing to the farm gate and the road leading down into Bywater, before unharnessing the other pony and following Mr Delver to the stables. Tiger Lily stayed where she was, and hoped vaguely that she hadn’t been forgotten about. She watched the lads carrying the wheat, and wondered if she should offer to help. _They’d probably laugh at me_ , she thought.

One of the lads was carrying twice the amount of the others. He was around her age, broad-shouldered and tousle-haired. He was sweating profusely, and his shirt was clinging in such a way as to highlight his muscles, which stood out under the strain of his load. The top few buttons of his shirt were undone. His name was Rob Delver, but she didn’t know this.

Jonson, who had reached the barn before his brother, was leaning against a wall and getting his breath back. When Rob reached the barn and unloaded the wheat Jonson nodded at Tiger Lily.

“You’ve got yourself an admirer,” he said.

“Huh?” Rob, wiping his brow with a sleeve, turned, and made eye contact with Tiger Lily.

“I reckon you’re in there,” Jonson said. “Posh lasses like a bit of rough.”

Had Tiger Lily heard Rob’s response, she would have insisted that she didn’t know what those words meant. As it was, she hadn’t realised she’d been staring until Rob had seen her. Now she had turned away, and was blushing from ear to ear.

Opal had just returned from the house, and was watching at her with a bemused expression. “What’s wrong with you?” she asked.

“A farm lad saw me staring at him,” Tiger Lily said. Her voice came as a high-pitched squeak.

“Oh. Is that all?” Opal surveyed the group of lads at by the barn. Rob was marching back to the cart, while Jonson was following and trying to rile him up again. “Well. Serves you right for spying,” she said.

“I wasn’t spying,” Tiger Lily said indignantly, turning to face her cousin.

Opal raised her eyebrows. “Oh, you needn’t look _that_ ashamed, I’m sure lots of lasses do it.”

Tiger Lily was whimpering to herself, one hand over her face. “I can never come here again,” she said. “I can never leave the hole again. Wherever I go and whatever I do, everyone will know me as the lass who—”

“Don’t be silly. Oh, look, Sango’s back.”

Tiger Lily peered out from between her fingers. Sango was indeed coming back from the stables, and making his way towards them. Behind him, Mr Delver was pulling a handcart.

“I’ve sent a lad down to see the wheelwright,” Sango said. “Hopefully he’ll be able to spare someone to take a look. And we managed to dig out this old thing.” He gestured in the direction of the hand cart. “It’s not in perfect condition, but it’ll do for now. Are you all right, Tills? Only you’ve gone all red.”

“I think the sun’s got to her a bit,” Opal said.

“I’m fine,” Tiger Lily said quickly.

“What did Cook say?” Sango asked.

“That one of the barrels of beer has been mysteriously emptied since last week,” Opal said.

Sango groaned. “Why is everything… All right, then. If you’d like something to do—” He looked at Tiger Lily and dug into his waistcoat pocket. “You could go down to the _Green Dragon_ and see if they can spare a barrel.” He pushed a few coins into her hand.

“I’m not sure I can” she began.

“You’ll be fine. It’s nothing to worry about. Of course, you need someone to go with you; a good, strong lad,” he said, scanning the wheat field.

Tiger Lily noticed Opal’s wicked grin, and only realised what it meant a second too late.

“What about that one?” Opal said, pointing to Rob.

Sango squinted out into the field. “He’ll do. Strong as an ox, that one. You!” he called, and waved to Rob. Rob, who was just emerging from the barn having helped pull the hand cart, pointed to himself questioningly. Sango nodded and beckoned him over.

Rob approached nervously, his shoulders slightly stooped. “Can I help, sir?” he said. He and Tiger Lily made brief, awkward eye contact.

“Yes, you can,” Sango said, oblivious. “It’s Hender, isn’t it?”

“I’m Rob, sir.”

“Sorry, Rob. Miss Took is going to pick up some extra beer for this evening, and someone needs to help her bring it back. Does that sound like something you could do?”

“Aye, sir,” Rob mumbled.

“Good lad. Now, Opal—”

Sango preceded to tell Opal how she could help him get the weekly wages ready to be handed out. Tiger Lily was able to give her one last scowl before turning to Rob. “Shall we head off, then?” she said.

“As you wish, miss,” Rob said.

They slowly made their way around the field, towards the farm gate. There was a steely silence. Rob kept his eyes turned resolutely to the ground. Tiger Lily couldn’t get rid of the feeling that she should say something, and opened her mouth to speak several times, but couldn’t quite bring herself to say the words. It didn’t help that stood next to him she felt like a child, with her hair in bunches and a dress that was all frills and ribbons. Finally, they were on the lane to the _Dragon_ , and she was convinced that they were out of view of the farm lads and, more crucially, Opal. She gathered her courage.

“I’m really very sorry,” she said, trying to get all the words out at once. “I know I shouldn’t have stared, I don’t know what I was thinking. I can’t imagine how embarrassed you must have been and, and…” She trailed off. Rob was looking at her now, eyebrows raised. “I’m sorry,” she finished. She felt this wasn’t really enough, but wasn’t sure if she could ever apologise enough to satisfy anyone, least of all herself.

“‘s all right,” Rob said, in a gruff voice. “No need to get yourself worked up.”

Tiger Lily relaxed slightly. “Thank you. Sorry.” She shook her head. “Sorry, I should apologise for apologising. And I’ve just apologised for apologising for apologising. Ugh.” She massaged her forehead. “And I almost apologised again. I’d keep going all day, given the chance.”

“Right.”

She could tell he was uncomfortable. She was used to seeing that reaction in Hobbits, when she was the one they were talking to. She couldn’t help but notice his skin was still damp. “Would you like to use my parasol?” she said. When she saw his confused expression she tried to explain. “I just feel bad because you must have been out in the sun all day, and I haven’t. I know it’s not very masculine, but I felt I should offer.” She was trembling with anxiety.

“Right. I’m fine, thank you, miss.”

Up ahead, the young lad who’d been sent to the wheelwright was walking towards them, back up to the farm. He was trying to cartwheel, but couldn’t properly get his legs in the air. A little way behind him, a plump lass with blue eyes was following. The lad caught sight of Rob, and gave up his cartwheeling to run up to them.

“Where you going, Rob?” he said.

“On an errand for Master Sango. I’ll be back soon.” Rob said.

“Who’s this?” the lad asked, looking at Tiger Lily.

“I’m Tiger Lily,” Tiger Lily said, in what she hoped was a suitably cheery tone to use with a child. “Hello.”

“Introduce yourself, lad,” Rob said. “Polite like.”

“Hello Miss Tiger Lily. I’m Master Martin Delver,” the lad said.

“Nice to you meet you, Master Martin.” she said, trying to smile.

“Cheers, miss. See you back at the farm, Rob,” Martin said, going back to his half-running, half-cartwheeling journey back to the farm.

“That ain’t no way to answer a lady. And if you break your neck doing handstands, I’ll not carry you home,” Rob called after him, but the lad either didn’t hear or didn’t care. Rob turned to Tiger Lily, looking bashful. “Sorry, miss. He’s just being contrary.”

“Oh, it’s all right,” Tiger Lily said, trying to laugh a little. “He’s very sweet. Is he your brother?”

“Aye, miss. My youngest. I’ve got six of ‘em.”

“Gosh.” Tiger Lily did her best to mask her surprise. “I’ve only got one. Bandobold. He’s fifteen. A little older than Martin, I think.”

“Martin’s eleven.” Rob stayed silent for a time, but had a question burning on his lips. He and Tiger Lily passed the blue eyed lass. He nodded. “Afternoon, Lavender.”

“Rob.”

After she’d gone past he decided to let his curiosity get the better of him. “So… your brother named after Bullroarer, then?”

“Hmm?” She had been distracted by a squirrel that had run across their path. “Oh, yes.”

“Right. Was he your great-great grandfather, or something, then? You don’t have to say if you don’t want,” he added quickly. “It ain’t none of my business.”

She shrugged. “I’ve been told all of this so many times that I may as tell others when they ask. Bandobras was my great-great-great—” She was counting the ‘great’s on her fingers. “—great-great uncle. I think that’s right. Father just loves all those old stories about the adventures the Tooks used to go on. I think that’s why poor Bandobold was given his name.”

“Huh. I don’t think Mum and Dad put much thought into our names. They probably thought more about Nutmeg, since she was the first, but after that there were so many of us they didn’t have the time to think up interesting names.” He chuckled.

Tiger Lily wasn’t sure whether he would take offence at her laughing, or not laughing, so she compromised by grinning. “Surely not. The name ‘Rob’ is nice. It suits you.” Her face fell suddenly. “Sorry, that was too forward, wasn’t it? I don’t know you well enough to be able to say whether or not your name suits you.”

“We’re just making pleasantries. I ain’t going to take offence, miss.”

“Tiger Lily,” she said, distractedly.

“Suits you. If that ain’t too forward.”

By now they had reached the _Green Dragon_. Rob went to open the door for Tiger Lily, but she reached it first. She held the door for him, smiling. As he followed her inside he saw it wasn’t the forced, anxious smile she wore when she was trying to make conversation, but one of genuine joy.

“Thank you, Miss Tiger Lily,” he said.

* * *

Sango had been in the house, dealing out the week’s wages with Opal when he was informed that not only had a wheelwright arrived, but that the particular wheelwright who had been sent was Lavender Hobble. He had left the room as quickly as he could while maintaining at least some propriety. He had straightened out his waistcoat before leaving the house and strolled over to the cart, and Lavender, as casually as he could.

There was a crowd of various maids and foothobbits in front of the house, arranging tables and chairs according to Opal’s orders. The reapers had finished their work, and were helping to being the wheat in by hand, while some of the stronger lads were taking turns pulling the hand cart between the barn and the centre of the field. Lavender was knelt by the offending wheel, her brow furrowed and lips pursed. It was, of course, unusual for a lass to also be an artisan. But Fendad Hobble, who was an old fashioned Hobbit in every other respect, had trained both of his daughters in his trade.

‘Had I three strapping sons,’ he’d say when people questioned him, ‘I would teach them all wheel-making, as my father taught me. As it is, I have one strapping son, and two daughters. I’ve had to make do with what I’ve been given.’

Lavender looked up as he approached, and smiled. Her deep red lips parted to show off her teeth. “Hello, Master Sango. Nice day for it.”

“Yes. Yes it is.” He grinned foolishly and looked up at the sky. “So what’s happened with the, uh, you know…” He flailed his hand in the direction of the wheel. A section of the rim had broken away.

“Rot’s gotten into the felloes, and weevils’ve followed it. See here.” She rubbed her thumb over the rim. “I can take that off with my hand,” she said, and wiped her fingers on her skirt. “I think most of the felloes’ll have to go, and at least some of the spokes. We might be able to keep the nave, but I ain’t sure at the moment. Of course, replacing the nave’ll be more expensive…”

“Oh, that’s not an issue.” He was mostly sure he knew what she was talking about. “When can you have it finished by?”

“Tomorrow at the earliest. Even we get the afternoon off on a Friday,” Lavender said, and smiled sweetly at him.

“Of course. I’d hate to think it was otherwise. And the handcart has been surprisingly effective. Can I help you take it back to your workshop?”

“Nah, Nickon can help me with it, he should be coming up later for the festival. Unless, of course you want it gone this minute.”

“No, no. I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you. You’ll be staying for the festival yourself, then?” he said, while trying to sound interested enough to be friendly, but not so interested as to be strange.

“Oh, of course.” She rested a hand on his upper arm. “You couldn’t keep me away.”

He grinned, and could feel a slight flush of heat on his face. “Well, it’ll be all the more cheerful for your presence.”

She laughed, and moved her hand down his forearm. “You’re a proper gentlehobbit, Master Sango.” She glanced in the direction of a farm lad—Sango vaguely recognised him as the eldest of Mr Delver’s sons—and her expression darkened. “Unlike some. I think I might stay and help get the grain in,” she said. She didn’t take her eyes off the Delver.

“Won’t your father miss you?”

“No, he’ll be shutting up soon.” Lavender finally turned her attention back to Sango. The smile returned. “There’s not much point in my going back just to arrive here again in an hour,” she said and let go of his arm.

“Quite. That’s very generous of you, Miss Lavender,” Sango called as she walked away.

She turned around and walk backwards for a few steps, just long enough to say, “Don’t think nothing of it, Master Sango.”

Sango watched her for a while, and then looked over the field. Everyone seemed to be getting on well enough without his intervention. With everyone on the farm helping, it looked like they might actually be able to get all the wheat in in time for the start of the festival. He spotted Tiger Lily and Rob making their way to the house, rolling a barrel along in front of them. As he approached he started to make out the end of their conversation.

“—an’ no one knew what to do,” Rob said.

“So what happened?” Tiger Lily said.

“We caught it in the end. Nasty bugger it was.”

“Don’t use such language, Master Rob. You’re speaking to a lady,” Sango said. Both of their heads turned to look at him.

Rob stood to attention and averted his eyes to the ground. “Beg your pardon, sir. And miss. I forgot myself.”

“He was talking about the pig that got out at last harvest,” Tiger Lily said.

“I remember. Well, I can’t fault your description of his character, Rob. Even if I wouldn’t have been so coarse in my language. Could you get the barrel over to the tables, please?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Tills, could you come with me to the house?”

“Yes, of course.” She stepped daintily around the barrel and smiled at Rob. “It was nice to meet you, Rob.”

“And you, miss.”

As Sango and Tiger Lily walked side by side to the house, he said, “You’ve made a friend then?”

“Maybe. I think. Did the wheelwright send your favourite of his daughters?” She lightly nudged him as they walked.

He laughed a little, and kept his eyes on the house. “Yes. He did.” He looked behind them. Jonson and Lavender had gone behind the barn together to shield themselves from the sight of the other farm workers. Sango, however, was looking at the barn side-on, and so got an adequate view of their heated discussion. “She seems to be a little preoccupied at the moment,” he said, forlornly.

Among the labourers getting the wheat in were Meg and Jack Delver. The rest of their siblings were there as well, scattered evenly across the field.

“We should’ve been done by now,” Meg said, and adjusted the sheaves she was carrying under each arm.

“Ah well. Just think of the sweet debauchery that’s to follow,” Jack said, squinting in the sunlight. “It’s the last chance you’ll have to enjoy it afore you’re wed.”

“But, Jack, I’m so tired,” she whined.

“That’s because you’re old,” he said, between heavy breaths.

“Thirty-two ain’t old.”

“Nearly thirty-three. That’s ancient.”

“Don’t remind me. They’re done then,” she said, referring to Lavender, who had come out from behind the barn.

Jack squinted at her. “She’s red in the face. That means one of two things.”

“Stop it.”

The Delvers met Lavender before they reached the barn. “Well, me and Jonson ain’t courting no more,” she said.

“Oh, Lavender, I’m sorry,” Meg said.

“Don’t be. How long were we courting for, three months? No lad’s worth getting upset over.” They fell into walking three abreast. “Don’t pretend you’re sad for me, either. I know you din’t like me and Jonson being together.”

Meg shrugged as best she could with her arms full. “It was odd. That’s all. Wouldn’t you think it was odd if I started courting Nickon?”

“I’ll be honest, Meg, I’ve not given much thought to that possibility.” She stretched her arms out to the side.

“Aye, and we’ll have to listen to his whining for days,” Jack said. “Here, make yourself useful, Lavender.” He unburdened one of his sheaves into her arms.

“Let ‘im complain to Bluebell Ansley,” she said. “Now I’m free all I need to do is find a new lad. Fancy it, Jack?”

“Never,” he said with feeling. “Not with you, at any rate.”

“Ah well. I think I might have someone else in mind.”

They reached the barn and dumped the sheaves. “Is that it then?” Meg asked, looking out at the farm workers congregating around the doorway of the barn, and the last few bringing wheat in.

“I think it might be,” Jack said. “For now, at least.”


	3. The Festival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Crying ceremony depicted here is borrowed (read: stolen) from the Cornish tradition of Crying the Neck. Since Hobbits have their own version of ‘Hey Diddle Diddle’, I didn’t think their own version of Crying the Neck was out of the question. The words, obviously, have nothing to do with the actual real life ceremony, but some effort was needed to be made to make it Hobbit relevant, so I linked it to Yavanna.  
> I went with ‘Ivon’ as Yavanna’s Sindarin name, rather than ‘Ivan’, because I thought ‘Ivon’ sounded better as a feminine name for those who aren’t aware of the context.  
> Any views expressed by characters describing Crying the Neck as ‘just a funny little ceremony’ are not representative of the views of the author.

Technically speaking, only those who had actually helped with the harvest were allowed to go to the harvest festival. In reality, however, it was attended by anyone who wanted to, and they were welcome, provided they contributed to the food and drink, or could play an instrument. This made for better parties. So the farm slowly filled with Hobbits from all over Bywater, the tables nearly groaning under the weight of their contributions, while they waited for the festival to officially begin. Sango had been lying in the shade of a tree when the last of the wheat was brought in, Tiger Lily and Opal sat either side of him. He was planning to spend most of the next day lying in a cool room with a cloth over his face.

Tiger Lily nudged him when Mr Delver approached. He sat up sleepily. “Hmm? What?”

“We’re just about finished now, sir,” Mr Delver said, “if you’d like to make the doll for the Crying.”

“Well done,” Sango said. He rubbed his eyes. “You can do the Crying, Jon, if you like. I don’t think I’m qualified.”

“Very good, sir.”

As Mr Delver made his way back to the barn, Sango got reluctantly to his feet. “I suppose we should head over.” He brushed some dirt off his breeches. “Have you ever seen the Crying, Opal?”

“I’ve heard of it,” she said.

“It’s just a funny little tradition the workers like to do every year. It marks the end of the harvest.”

When they reached the barn, Mr Delver was just emerging with a bundle of wheat, which he was twisting into a corn doll. Silence rippled out as he walked to the centre of the crowd, who shuffled out of his way to form a circle around him. Everyone wearing a hat removed it reverentially. All watched Mr Delver.

Presently he looked up his work and turned to face the east. He held the corn doll high above his head. “Who is this maid?” he called to the crowd in general.

As one, the Hobbits who surrounded him replied, “‘Tis Ivon the fair.”

“And what’s she to us?” Mr Delver said.

“‘Tis her harvest we reaped.”

“And how shall we honour her?”

“With food and with drink!” the workers shouted enthusiastically. Then they broke into applause, and cheering. Most of it came from Meg and Jack.

“Quieten down,” Clover said. “It’s embarrassing.”

Mr Delver left the circle, and handed the doll to Sango. “There you are, sir.”

“Thank you, Jon. Thank you, everyone. It’s been a good harvest this year. Help yourselves.” He indicated the tables near the house. “And I’ll send the beer around in a minute.”

The workers streamed past him and the Tooks. Between the moving Hobbits, several of the children took up a game of tag.

“What are you going to do with it?” Opal asked, staring at the corn doll.

“We hang it in the kitchen until it’s time to plant next year’s crop. Then we burn it and plough the ashes into the field,” Sango said, turning the doll over in his hands.

“Isn’t burning a symbol of Ivon blasphemous?”

“Don’t ask me, it’s not my doing. It’s meant to sort of return her to the earth, I think. Are you two staying for the feast?”

“I am,” Opal said.

Tiger Lily fidgeted nervously. “I was going to go home now, actually.”

“Ugh.” Opal rolled her eyes. “You’re so boring. I’m going to get a drink.”

While Opal left, Sango turned to Tiger Lily and said, “I wish you would stay. Sorry, I know you find things… difficult.”

Tiger Lily looked to the farm gate, and then back to Sango. “I suppose I should. Sometimes I worry I’ll become a recluse. I can leave when I like, can’t I?”

“Of course.” He looped his arm through hers to walk her to the party. “And you never know, you might enjoy it.”

Behind them, Mr Delver had reunited with his children and wife. Mrs Delver planted a kiss on his cheek. “I’m very proud,” she said.

“Cheers, Joy,” he said.

Clover was glancing from the farm gate to her father and back again. Eventually she said, “I think I’ll just head off for a bit. I’ve an errand to run.”

“You sure?” her mother said. “Can’t it wait ‘til tomorrow?”

“Won’t be long,” Clover said. She was already walking to the gate. “I’ll be back afore sunset. You don’t need to follow me, Meg.”

But Meg wasn’t listening. Instead, she was busy searching the moving crowd. Without warning she darted away from her family.

“Winden!” she said, and threw her arms around a lad who was standing a little way off with a group of friends.

“Easy, lass,” he said, and detached her from his shoulders. “What’s all this for?”

“I’m happy to see you,” she said. “Is that allowed?” 

He laughed. “You’re a funny thing sometimes. See you later, lads.”

She took his hand and they started to walk to the tables together. “How was work?” she asked.

Winden threw his head back and groaned. “The housekeeper had a right go at me today.”

“What happened?”

“I dropped a box of glasses. It was a mistake anyone could make. They took the cost out of my wages, which… All right, fair enough, but she din’t need to talk to me like that. Don’t worry, though, I’ll be revenged on her. Not sure how yet.”

Meg rested her head on his shoulder. “Don’t.”

“Aw, Meg, but you din’t hear her.”

“I know. You don’t deserve to be treated so poor. But don’t do nothing rash. Please?”

He sighed, and smiled lopsidedly. “All right then. For you. I hope you appreciate my sacrifices.”

She looked at him coyly. “I’m sure I can think of a way to reward you.”

“Is that right?” He leaned in and kissed her neck. She turned her head to face him, giggling, and he kissed her again, on the lips. She pulled away.

“Don’t,” she said, but smiled as she did. “My parents are right over there.” Inadvertently, they had almost caught up with the Delvers. She draped her arms over his shoulders, and lowered her voice. “But if you’re good we can find somewhere to go together after the festival. Alone like.”

He grinned. “Strumpet.”

“Rake.”

They resumed walking, hand in hand. When they did catch up to the Delvers, Winden called over to Mr Delver, “Well done with the Crying, Jon.”

Meg’s father looked over his shoulder at the couple. “It’s ‘Mr Delver’ ‘til you take her off my hands, lad.”

“Ignore ‘im. Come on, let’s get to the feast,” Meg said, and dragged Winden along behind her while she rushed past her family.

All the farm workers, and everyone else, had converged on the group of tables and chairs around the house. The cooks and the visitors had made sure they were fully stocked. The air hummed with discussion and laughter, and if you listened hard enough you could hear the musicians trying to tune their instruments. As Meg and Winden moved through the crowd they heard snatches of different conversations. Some were about family or work, but most were about the food. There were cakes, sparkling with sugar, and current buns, and soft slices of bread, with thick, crunchy crusts. Bowls overflowed with freshly picked raspberries and pears. There were also glistening meats: chicken, beef, pork and lamb. Meg’s mouth had started watering before they’d come within twenty feet of the tables. Of most importance were the barrels of beer, and everyone was already drinking freely.

She and Winden managed to find a couple of seats, and she was happily biting into a slice of bread, smothered in rich butter and blackberry jam, when an arm reached across her line of vision to grab a seedcake. A lad was attached to the arm. “All right, Meg,” he said. “Pretty as ever.”

“Nickon,” she said, grinning, and tried to wipe jam away from her lips.

“Ain’t trying to take my lass from me, are you?” Winden said, wrapping an arm around Meg’s waist. “You’ll have to fight me for ‘er.”

“Nah. I’ll just wait ‘til she leaves you.” He winked at her. “Save me a dance,” he said before he disappeared back into the throng.

“I hate him,” Winden said, and let go of Meg’s waist.

“He don’t mean it,” she said. “It’s just ‘is way.” Her cheeks were flushed nonetheless.

Winden made a non-comital grumbling noise and rose to his feet. “I’m getting a drink. You want one?”

“I’m all right, thanks. You won’t drink too much, will you?”

“Still trying to save me from a life of wickedness?”

She shrugged. “Ain’t nothing wrong with a bit of wickedness. Now and then.”

He grinned. “My level-headed lass. I’ll marry you one day.”

Meg said nothing, but watched sadly as he started to move away from the table. The music started up. The tune was old, traditional, and made for dancing. Meg shoved the last of her bread in her mouth and swallowed. “Can we dance, Winden?” she called to him over the noise.

“Let me get a drink first, lass,” he said, looking back at her briefly as he pushed his way through the crowd.

“I’ll just have to find someone else then,” she said.

He shrugged. “Do as you please. So long as it ain’t Nickon.”

Meg pursed her lips and looked around. She locked eyes with a red-haired lad, who she thought she recognised as working in some shop or other. “Fancy a dance?” she said.

He looked startled. “I can,” he said carefully.

“You’ll do, then.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him away from the tables, into a little open space where a few Hobbits were starting to dance. She immediately pulled him into a jig. Meg was not the most graceful dancer in the world, but she moved with such confidence and enthusiasm that it was easy to trick people into thinking she was talented.

No one saw when Clover returned, but she must have done at some point. She stood by herself, nursing a beer and watching the dancers.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Clover hadn’t noticed the approach of Primrose Hobble, the youngest and sweetest of the wheelwright’s children. She was smiling prettily, and had a drink in one hand, and a cake in the other. There were violets in her hair.

“No less than tuppence,” Clover said. “Where’d you come off looking so happy?”

“Where’d _you_ come off looking so miserable? You’re hardly festive.”

“I went down to the fish mongers. They said I wouldn’t be suited to the job.”

“Oh…” Primrose held the cake in her mouth and used her newly freed hand to pat Clover’s shoulder. “Sorry to hear ‘at,” she said through the cake.

Clover looked into her drink. “It’s like I can see the rest of my life in front of me, and it’s just more of this. Do you think your dad could…?”

Primrose removed the cake from her mouth and said, “I don’t think you want to go into wheelwrighting. Once you learn it, you’re stuck. Or you give it up and it’s all for nothing.”

Clover sighed and rubbed the back of her neck. “I don’t really have any better ideas. I’ve asked near every shop in the village.”

“There’s a family on North Bank Row looking for a maid,” Primrose said, and took another sip of beer. “Just heard it around. With the midwifery. Mothers tend to gossip.”

Clover regarded her for a moment. “About maids?”

“Yes. Sometimes.” Her voice was higher than usual. She quavered under Clover’s hard stare.

Clover narrowed her eyes at Primrose and then looked away. “Keep your secrets if you must. Which family, then?”

“The Grubbs. I think. You know, the registrars.”

“And did your gossipy mothers say which hole on North Bank Row the Grubbs live on?”

“Number 3,” Primrose said, through a mouthful of cake. She swallowed. “I don’t know when the interviews are, though, sorry.”

Clover nodded and drained her tankard. “Cheers. I’ll think about it.”

They returned to watching the dancers.

“At least someone’s enjoying themselves,” Primrose said, nodding at Meg, who had just finished dancing. “Usually it takes at least two drinks to get her dancing like that.”

“She’s been in a good mood near all day.”

“Good.” After a moment’s contemplation Primrose leaned close to Clover and said, “The wed—”

“All right, you two?” Meg said, trotting towards them.

“I was just asking about the wedding. You have a date yet? Only Mum was wondering if she should get a new hat,” Primrose said.

Meg’s smile seemed to stiffen. “No,” she said.

“Sorry,” Primrose said quickly. “I din’t mean—”

“It’ll be soon enough. I think I’ll just go and see how Winden’s doing,” Meg said. “See you later.”

When Meg had gone Primrose turned back to Clover. Her shoulders were hunched. “I’m sorry. Just thought she’d have a date by now, since she’s coming of age so soon.”

Clover shook her head. “I don’t know what’s happening either. No one does.”

“But they’re still getting wed, ain’t they?”

“Don’t know. If I was your mum, I wouldn’t get a new hat just yet.”

Primrose looked at her in the way most look at an infected wound. “How can you speak so cruelly? And about your own sister!”

“I ain’t trying to be cruel. I wish I had no reason to think so, but as it is, I can’t see ‘em getting wed. You all right?”

“Yes,” Primrose said. She was shuffling her feet uneasily. “I think so. Can we talk about something else?”

The afternoon wore on, and edged into evening. Hobbits left and Hobbits arrived. Tiger Lily remained firmly by Sango’s side. While he flitted from group to group with increasing ease, she followed, but said little. Eventually she found herself stood alone with half a tankard of beer while Sango was off getting one for himself. She was still on her first. He wasn’t.

She watched the Hobbits who were dancing. She marvelled that they knew exactly what to do and where to go, and never once seemed to worry that they were doing it wrong. She turned away when she heard Sango’s voice through the chatter of strangers

“Excuse me… Excuse me…” When he had almost reached her he tripped.

Tiger Lily darted to him. “Careful!” She caught him in such a way that he ended up slumped in her arms, where he burst into laughter. He’d spilled most of his beer, while she had somehow managed to keep most of hers. She helped him stand up straight, and looked on him with a mix of concern and affection. “You’re feeling better then,” she said.

“Very much,” he said, wiping the tears from his eyes. “In my experience beer can make most things better. You’d know that too if you drank more.” Sango leaned back to finish what was left in his tankard.

“I don’t think Mother and Father would be happy if I came home the worse for drink.”

He wiped his mouth and rested his tankard on a nearby table. “Well, mine won’t be home until tomorrow. They’ll never know. Are you done with that, then?”

She looked into her tankard. “Yes, I think so.”

“May I?”

She wordlessly passed her drink to him, and he drained the tankard.

“You’re disgusting,” Tiger Lily said, but without any actual reprimand in her tone.

“I am,” he said happily. Suddenly, he grabbed her shoulder and stared at something happening behind her. “Lavender Hobble’s coming over,” he said.

Sango let go of Tiger Lily’s shoulder and she stepped to one side, so that they were both facing the approaching Lavender.

“Put your tongue back in,” Tiger Lily said, and received a sharp nudge in the ribs from Sango. “Ow!”

“But why?” Sango said, ignoring the dirty look Tiger Lily was giving him. “I saw her with one of the labourers earlier.”

“You said they were arguing.”

“They were. But lasses don’t get over that sort of thing that quickly, do they? Or do they?” He looked at Tiger Lily for guidance.

“ _I_ don’t know!”

By this time Lavender reached them. She gave a little curtsy. “Evening, Master Sango. Enjoying the festival?”

“A little too much,” he said, grinning like a fool.

Lavender snorted, and covered her mouth. “Me too. Don’t know how much I’ve ‘ad to drink.” She placed a hand on Sango’s arm. “Mind if I spirit him away?” she said to Tiger Lily.

“Do.” She tried to sound as indifferent as possible.

Lavender smiled and linked arms with Sango, leading him away. He looked over his shoulder and gave Tiger Lily a smug look. They disappeared between the rows of strangers, and Tiger Lily suddenly felt very alone. She looked around. All she could see in the deep orange sunlight was other Hobbits, locked into their own conversations. Each circle of friends seemed as impenetrable as a stone fortress. She couldn’t see Opal anywhere. Panic rose up in her. It seemed that everyone was watching her, and that all the laughter was at her expense. The heat from being in such a large crowd of Hobbits was becoming too much. She prayed that her heartbeat would slow, or she thought she might faint, or cry, or both. Tiger Lily held her arms protectively about her, and walked away towards the gate, unseen and alone.

Sango didn’t notice her go. All of his attention was taken by Lavender. It wasn’t so much that she was beautiful, though she was pleasant-looking. Her primary charm was that everything she said and did was said and done with the absolute certainty that it was right. Not that she had no capacity for guilt, but that when she had been in the wrong she would give an appropriate apology, and think no more about it, without regret or worry getting in the way. She was herself as much as it was possible for anyone to be themselves, and she knew that wherever she was was where she was meant to be. The overall effect was captivating.

“I… Uh… Couldn’t help noticing you and the eldest Delver lad earlier,” Sango said. He was leaning against the barrel while Lavender refilled her tankard. “I hope it wasn’t too… I don’t like to intrude—”

“Oh, that,” Lavender said airily. “We’ve been courting these past months, but I’ve had to let ‘im go.” She moved away from the barrel, Sango trailing after her. “He wronged me.”

“Oh, no,” Sango said. “Are you all right?”

Lavender shrugged. “I don’t have no sore feelings. No point in dwelling, is there? What’s done is done.” She grinned.

“I’ll drink to that,” he said, and did.

“Me too,” she took a drink from her own tankard. “So I’m unattached.”

Sango sagged with relief, and hoped it didn’t show. “Me too.”

“See, I always thought you was,” Lavender said, with mild curiosity. “From your manner, if you don’t mind me saying. But everyone says you and that Took lass—”

“Tills? No. Gosh, no.”

“Glad to hear it.” Lavender drank deeply from her tankard. She said in as low a voice as she could, “Is she the one what goes hunting?”

The way Sango’s usually doughy features darkened told her she’d crossed a line. “That’s a rumour. A cruel one,” he said.

“Sorry,” she said, touching his arm. “I din’t mean nothing by it. If I knew it was false I wouldn’t’ve said nothing.”

The dark expression melted back into his face as quickly as it appeared. “Don’t concern yourself, you weren’t to know. What’s done is done.”

Lavender saw a window of opportunity, and took it. She stepped closer to him. “She’s very lucky to have such a lad as you looking out for her. I wish I did.”

Sango flushed with pride. “You could if you wanted.”

“I reckon I do.” She cast a sly glance at the farm house. “Would you like to go in the house for a bit? So we can talk in private.”

“Definitely,” Sango said breathlessly. He allowed himself to be led to the house by Lavender, as though she were inviting him into her home and not the other way around. _I’ll go wherever you want me to_ , he thought.

* * *

Tiger Lily eventually reached North Bank Row. Part of her longed for the company of another, while a different part—one she didn’t like—relished the isolation. Moving along the lonely street, she might have been the only Hobbit in the world. There was no on there to judge her, or make her feel she was less than she was. She held her head up high, and felt that maybe she could be graceful and good, neither of which she could do in the company of others. Not even Sango. Not quite. She reached her home at the end of the Row, and the spell was broken. She was Tiger Lily again: plain and awkward.

Inside, her father, brother and uncle were in the hallway, putting on their cloaks. Each had a quiver attached to his belt.

“There you are,” her father said. “We’re just about ready. Are you still coming?”

Tiger Lily didn’t hesitate to reply, “Yes, of course.”

* * *

As darkness descended on the farm, the food was almost all gone, and the Hobbits that were there was slowly starting to make their way home, or to an inn if they felt they hadn’t made quite merry enough. Mrs Delver was sat at a table, which had been completely stripped of food. Martin was sat in her lap, sleeping, which was only possible because the musicians had ceased playing. Fastad, the younger twin, was sat next to his father, further down the table. He was leaning against him, nodding sleepily.

“Jon,” she called as loudly as she dared. “I think it’s time to go home. I’ll round up the brood.”

She nudged Martin awake.

“Mmm?”

“I need to get up, love.”

“Uh…”

She got up and sat him in her chair, where he remained curled up. She looked over the remaining party-goers, but found no obvious traces of Delver. She gravitated towards a group of children, hoping to find the older twin among them. She found him. She also found Meg. The children in question were playing blind man’s buff, and she was it. The children were darting around her, laughing and goading her into catching them, while she staggered clownishly, grabbing at the empty air in front of her.

Winden watched from a bench a little way away, tankard in hand. “Come on, lass,” he called. “Gonna let yourself be beat by whelps?”

“I’ll get _you_ in a minute,” Meg said over the din.

“Best make my escape, then.” He nodded to Mrs Delver and approached her, giving the game a wide berth. “Hard to know who’s enjoying it more,” he said. “Her or them.”

Mrs Delver shrugged. “It’s good practice for when you have your own.”

Winden cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Guess so.”

An auburn-haired lass gave Meg an almighty shove before running away, squealing.

“Oi! I know that was you, Olive,” Meg swung around to face the direction of the shrieks.

“She’s to your right!” the older twin shouted. He was standing recklessly close.

“I know that voice,” Meg said, turning towards him.

He tried to escape, but she had already grabbed him around the middle. She tore the blindfold from her eyes, laughing. “Ain’t nice to tell on others, Danny,” she said, tickling him mercilessly.

“Meg! Stop it!” he choked between laughter.

“Never!”

“Having fun?” Mrs Delver asked.

Meg saw her and Winden, and released Danny, who rushed back into the group. “Lots.”

“Good. We’re off home, Dan, say goodbye to your friends.”

Mrs Delver walked towards Meg, who was trying to restore order to her hair. “Haven’t seen any of the other little’uns, have you?”

“How little?”

“Hender and younger. Or any that’s drunk too much to get home by ‘emselves. We’ve already got Martin and Fastad at the table closest the house.”

“I last saw Myrtle off that way.” Meg gestured away to the right. “You wanting help finding ‘em?”

“If it ain’t no trouble.”

“Course it ain’t.”

“You _are_ good,” Mrs Delver said, and put a hand on Meg’s shoulder. “Come on, Danny, let’s find your sisters.”

Winden watched Meg over the rim of his tankard. “You want I should help?”

“If you like.”

“May as well.” He set his tankard down on the nearest table. “You and your lot,” he chuckled.

“Me and my lot. I reckon nearly every Hobbit I know’s here.” She noticed a group of Hobbits in embroidered satin waistcoats with gold buttons.

_And plenty I don’t_ , she thought.

“As with all the best parties. That’s your Rob over there ain’t it?” Winden said.

Meg strained to see. He was stood a little way away from the crowd with Hender. “Well spotted.”

“He’s hard to miss.”

As Meg and Winden got closer a retching sound reached their ears. Rob was stood over Hender, holding his unruly hair away from his face.

“Oh dear…” Meg said.

“Ah, well,” Winden said. “He’ll know better for next time.” He laughed when he saw Meg giving him a disapproving look. “What? Don’t tell me you never got into a state when you were a tweenager.”

She sniffed. “Couldn’t say.”

This was the first time Hender had been allowed to drink freely at the harvest, and he was regretting it. Winden and Rob together guided him to where the rest of the family were waiting, while Meg found Poppy. She was one of a group of tweenagers who were both too old to play games with the children and too young to take full advantage of the party, and so were all pretending they hated harvest. Poppy’s fury at being summoned to go home in front of her friends barely stayed below the surface. These two and Myrtle, who had been found by Mrs Delver, completed the group. Rob also elected to go home with his family, not being the fondest of parties.

“What about you, Meg?” Mrs Delver said hopefully.

Meg glanced at Winden and smiled. “I don’t think I’m going back quite yet,” she said. She and Winden took each other’s hands and made to walk back into the fray. “See you lot in the morning.”

Mrs Delver watched helplessly as they left. “Try not to get back too late,” she said.

“Don’t worry, Mum,” Meg called over her shoulder.

“She’s gone, han’t she?” Mrs Delver said, to no one in particular. “I’ve completely lost her.”

“I think we lost her a while ago, Joy,” Mr Delver said. He draped Hender’s arm over his shoulder, the better to support him. “There we are, you fool.”

“I know. I just din’t want to believe it,” Mrs Delver said.

“I’m tired,” Martin whined.

“Come on then, lad,” Rob said, getting on his knees. Martin scrambled up his brother’s back like a squirrel.

“How much have you had to drink?” Mrs Delver asked sharply.

“I’m sober, Mother,” Rob said, standing up again, supporting Martin’s legs.

“ _Please_ can we go home now,” Poppy said.

“All right, Miss Prissy. Let’s head off.” Mr Delver looked around. In the distance he could see Nickon and Primrose removing the wheel from the downed cart. “I was going to thank Master Sango for the party. But I don’t know where he’s gone off to.”

Master Sango was in his bedroom. Miss Lavender was with him. They had gone there hand in hand, giggling as they went. Now they were sat on his bed, kissing. Even in the fog that seemed have temporarily made a home in his head, Sango couldn’t quite believe it was happening. Her hands cupped his face. One of his hands was on her leg, and he ran a thumb over her knee. The fabric of her skirt was warm.

She nudged closer to him, and he felt her work-worn hands shift to his neck, and his cravat. The fog shifted uneasily. When she began to undo his buttons, he grabbed her wrists and broke away.

“What are you doing?”

Lavender’s eyes were wide. “You don’t know?”

“I do,” he said carefully. “That’s sort of the problem.” His face had turned a very dark raspberry colour. “Marital relations… are called that for a reason.”

Her eyebrows knitted together. “You told me you was a great lover.”

“Yes.” Still holding her wrists he moved her hands away from his shirt to rest them on the bed. “But not in that way.” He patted her hands nervously. “I think maybe you should go home now.” He opened the door for her. “Would you like me to walk with you?”

Lavender was still sat on the bed, and watched him with an open mouth. Finally she got to her feet. “No. I’m fine.”

When she passed him in the doorway he caught her by the wrist, “You’re not angry are you?” he said. He kissed her hand uncertainly. “I’m fond of you.”

She hesitated before answering. His eyes were desperate, and earnest. Lavender smiled and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Sweet lad,” she said, and disappeared into the gloom of the corridor.

* * *

Hunting was almost like being alone, Tiger Lily thought. She didn’t have to worry about talking when they were in the woods together, their hands on their bowstrings. There was still pressure, though. The pressure to meet one’s target, the pressure not to make a noise. Not that making noise was much of a problem for a Hobbit. A small collection of rabbits were already strung up on Uncle Hortenbold’s back.

There was a rustling, around forty yards away. It was the sound of deliberate movement, nothing made by the wind. Through the thick undergrowth and darkness it was impossible to see what it was.

The four Tooks’ heads turned. Uncle Hortenbold nodded at Tiger Lily and Bandobold. The siblings crept on the balls of their feet, stepping as lightly as they possibly could, and took care to keep out of direct moonlight. There was rustling, from roughly the same place as before. As they walked they prepared to draw their strings. Tiger Lily took the shelter of a tree, Bandobold beside her, and edged around the trunk to see what was in the clearing. It was a pair of pheasants. The moonlight illuminated the male’s long, elegant tale.

Without pause for thought, Tiger Lily pulled her string back to full draw, and loosed.

* * *

Meg walked home, alone. Only the sound of hoof beats behind her gave away that there was at least one other person out. She was slightly stooped in her walk, with her shoulders hunched. Her arms were folded protectively across her chest. The dark had fully set on the Shire now, and most of the light to see by was provided by the windows of those homes whose residents were still enjoying the last hours of Friday. It was only in this light that the glistening damp on Meg’s cheeks could be seen.

The hoof beats were getting closer. By the sound of it the rider was in a hurry. Meg stepped off the road onto the grassy verge. She couldn’t yet see the rider by the curve of the road. She continued with her solitary journey. The sound suddenly seemed very close, and before she could process what was happening, the mount and rider raced past, so fast as to be almost out of control. The rider was no Hobbit, but a tall, dark robed man, with a towering horse to match. The rider’s boot almost caught her around the head, and the rush of air as he went past whipped up her hair.

Even in her shock she had the presence of mind to call, “Careful, mister,” before the rider disappeared from sight further down the road.

By the time Meg did reach home she was trembling. The door was unlocked, as doors usually were in the Shire, though the house was in deep, dark sleep. She entered the lasses’ room on light, silent feet. There were only three beds. The one to the right had both occupants in it, and the middle one was empty; evidently Maizey had not returned yet. The bed closest to the door was Meg’s own, and Clover, with whom she shared, was already under the covers. Having changed into a nightgown—too short for her, it was probably Clover’s—Meg curled up under covers, facing away from her sister. She stared at the wall. The silence engulfed her.

“You’re upset,” Clover whispered.

Meg twisted to look over her shoulder. “How did you—”

“Your breathing.”

“Oh.” Meg settled down on her side again. “Can you tell if the other two are asleep?”

“They are.” There was silence again. “Did something happen?”

“Oh, I just passed someone on the road,” Meg said, “One of the big folk. Riding like a maniac.”

“One of the big folk? Are you sure?”

“Aye.” She curled up tighter and cuddled the corner of her pillow. “Can I tell you something?” she said, eventually.

“If you like.”

“I need to tell someone,” she said. Her words were raspy. “But I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want you to say anything at all. An’ you can’t tell anyone else. That’s for me to do.”

She heard Clover roll over to face her. “What’s wrong?”

“Do you promise?”

“If I must.”

Meg’s breathing quickened, and she gripped the pillow tighter. “I…” The words failed in her mouth. She buried her face in the pillow and whimpered.

“Meg…” Clover propped herself up on an elbow and reached out to touch her shoulder, but Meg shrugged her hand off.

“Winden left me,” she said.

Clover froze, her mouth hanging open. “Oh—” she said without thinking.

“Remember your promise,” Meg said.

Clover struggled, half way between speech and silence. Every part of her was screaming that she needed to say something, some words of comfort. But in the end she did as her sister asked and turned away silently. It took some time, but Meg eventually heard Clover’s breathing slip into the rhythm of sleep. She stayed awake, and stared at the wall with unseeing eyes.


	4. Hangovers

The next morning arrived much as any other. But for Clover, it was as though everything as shifted slightly. Not enough for anything to be drastically wrong, but just enough to make her feel uncomfortable and anxious. When she awoke Maizey was just doing up the laces on a worn out bodice, while Meg was helping Poppy put her hair up. Myrtle was nowhere to be seen. She was probably helping their mother with breakfast.

“There we are,” Meg said, finishing her work with a yellow bow. “Very pretty.”

Poppy got to her feet and looked at herself in a small hand mirror that lay on top of the chest of drawers. “Why can’t I make it look like this?”

“I’ll teach you one of these days.” Meg glanced over her shoulder at Clover. Her own oaky, nearly auburn, hair was aflame in the candlelight. “You’re awake, then. Anyone’d think it was you that’d spent all night at the inn.” She gave Maizey a look of mock disapproval.

Maizey held her hands up submissively. “I wasn’t out _all_ night.”

“I believe you. Most wouldn’t.” She turned back to Clover, who sat up groggily. “You all right?”

“Aye. Are you?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

The sisters locked eyes. Although Meg was smiling, Clover got the sense that there was something else going on beyond her cheerful appearance. Like a fire behind a brick wall. It was an expression that said, _‘Say why. I dare you.’_

“No reason,” Clover mumbled, swinging her legs out of bed.

Meg smiled. “Come on, Pop, let’s help Mum with breakfast.” They sidled awkwardly through the narrow gaps between the beds.

When Meg and Poppy were gone, Maizey turned to Clover, arms folded. “What was that?”

“Nothing.” Clover got stiffly to her feet and opened one of the drawers.

“I’m not an idiot.”

“Nothing as concerns you, then.” She brought out a shift and blue skirt.

Maizey threw her hands up in the air. “I hate lasses. Brothers just come out and say what they mean, but with sisters it’s all gossip, and things that ain’t said.”

Clover cast a brief, questioning look at Maizey. “You say that like you aren’t a lass yourself.”

“I wish I wasn’t,” Maizey said with feeling.

“You don’t mean that.”

Maizey turned away and walked gracelessly out of the room. “I do. If I was a lad I could make something of myself.”

Clover paused and looked at the clothes in her hands. In several places the seams had torn, and had been stitched back up again. “No more than Dad did,” she said.

* * *

The first thing Tiger Lily did that morning was visit Sango, stopping off at the village bakery beforehand. At the Boffins’ house a maid informed her that Master Sango was with a visitor in the study. Tiger Lily waited patiently in the entrance hall, her cloak slung over one arm, and her basket in the crook of the other. Presently an older Hobbit with hair the colour of straw marched his way through the hall. If he noticed Tiger Lily, he didn’t show it. He closed the door after him with a slam that made her flinch. She recognised him as someone important: a Bolger; or a Bracegirdle; or a Baggins. While she was trying to put a name to the face the same maid found her to say that Sango had returned to his room, but would be happy to admit her. She found him face down on his bed with the curtains closed. He could have been asleep. She cleared her throat.

He shifted slightly. “That you, Tills?”

“Yes.”

He flipped over onto his back, and draped an arm across his eyes. “I’m dead. Just so you know.”

“Oh dear.” She took a few steps into the room and kicked a discarded shirt from her path. “That’s still no excuse for this mess.”

“If you’re going to be cruel I’ll evict you,” he said, unmoving.

“Sorry. I bought you this.” She produced a small meat pie from her basket and held it above him.

Sango lifted the arm away from his eyes and grabbed the pie. It was still warm. “Yes!” he cried. He sat up and bit into it hungrily.

“Am I forgiven?” she said, sitting beside him on the bed.

“Marry me!” Sango said with his mouth still full, throwing his arms out wide.

Tiger Lily brushed a light covering of pastry crumbs off her skirt. “I’d rather not. We’d just fight.” She wiped her hands on his quilt.

Sango smiled, still chewing. “Probably true,” he said, covering his mouth when he spoke.

“And anyway, what about Lavender?”

“Oh, I couldn’t choose between you. I’d have to set up an elaborate challenge so you could compete for my hand. Like Beren.” He bit into the pie again.

She smiled. “Did everything go all right with her?”

“Yes… Uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. “Yes. I’m going to visit her later. I might even use it as an opportunity to ask her father for permission to court her.”

“Gosh.” She shifted so that she was sat cross-legged on the bed. “Isn’t that a bit soon? Not that I’m an expert.”

“I don’t think so.” He took another bite, and looked up thoughtfully. “But just in case, I’ll ask her before I do.”

“Good.” Tiger Lily was yet to engage in courtship, but she had always found the idea of a lad asking her father for permission acutely embarrassing. No one else she’d met seemed to have an issue with it, though. “I’m glad for you. And hopefully this means I won’t have to listen to you mooning over her anymore.”

“I shall pay you the same courtesy when you finally find a lad to moon over,” Sango said.

Tiger Lily said nothing.

“Don’t fret.” He touched her arm. “Things will get easier, one day. You just need to… I don’t know…” He retracted his hand. “Sorry. I wasn’t sure how to end that sentence when I started. But it will get easier, I’m sure.”

She shrugged. “I’m just sort of hoping that everything will sort itself out.”

Sango lay back again and stared at the ceiling, his eyes glazing over. “I remember when I first spoke to her,” he said.

Tiger Lily sighed and rested her chin on her fist. _This again_ , she thought.

“I was afraid it might be a dream,” he said. “And that I would wake and weep bitter tears of regret, for she was the most beguiling creature—”

At this Tiger Lily snorted. “Stop. You didn’t feel any of that, you just made it up to sound romantic.”

He propped himself up on his elbows. “Only technically.”

“You should put it in a poem,” she said.

“Maybe I should.”

“I could write poetry. Maybe that’s my talent,” Tiger Lily said reflectively. “But I suspect all of my poems would be about the sorrows of maidenhood.”

There was a knock at the door.

“Enter,” Sango said, and sat up.

A maid pushed the door further open. “Mr and Mrs Boffin are home, sir,” she said.

“Thank you, Lavinia.” He pushed and rest of the pie into his mouth and shuffled off the bed. “Fancy a walk? I think I need the air.” He stepped out into the light of the hallway and shielded his eyes with a hand. “By the Holy Ones…”

Tiger Lily smiled and followed Sango out to the front door, where his parents were removing their hats and coats.

“Hello, dear,” his mother said, looking in a mirror and pulling some stray hairs out of her eyes. “How’s it been?”

“All well. How was the wedding?”

“As they usually are.” She caught sight of him in the mirror and turned around. “You look like death. How much did you drink last night?”

“Not much.”

Her eyes turned to Tiger Lily. “Is he telling the truth?”

Tiger Lily panicked under Mrs Boffin’s stare. She looked to Sango, who gave her a meaningful glance, and then back to his mother. She fiddled with the lace on her sleeves. “…More or less?”

“Mmm…” She narrowed her eyes at her son. “We’ll have words later,” she said.

Sango glared at Tiger Lily, and then looked over at his father. “Cousin Lotho called again this morning,” he said.

Mr Boffin took off his gloves and rolled his eyes. “Oh dear. The usual, was it?”

“Yes.”

“And you told him what exactly?”

“Just that you weren’t at home, and I wasn’t in a position to do anything.”

“Good lad.”

Sango put his hands in his pockets and stood on the balls of his feet. “I was going out, unless you need me for anything.”

“You can go. The bailiff can help me catch up. I imagine you need a rest after yesterday.” He raised his eyebrows. “Depending on how much ‘resting’ you did last night.”

Sango folded his arms. “I behaved completely honourably,” he said.

“Yes?” Mr Boffin’s eyes flitted to Tiger Lily. “And what do you say?”

Before she could say anything, Sango was pushing her towards the door. “Oh, you can’t believe anything she says. She’s still drunk from the festival. I’ll see you both later.”

When they were outside she turned on him. “I’m not a drunk,” she said.

“‘More or less’!” Sango said. “Good grief, Tills.”

“I’m so sorry, but lying is wicked and she was looking right at me and I—”

“Yes, yes. You’re an innocent little flower.” He linked his arm around hers and they began to walk.

“Sorry,” she said.

He shrugged. “I’ll always take the company of an ingénue over a pest.”

“What?”

“Cousin Lotho. He keeps calling on us, and now he’s moving into Bag End it’ll only get worse. I’d hardly seen him until a month ago.”

“Why the change?”

Sango looked up. “Business things. I shan’t bore you with the details.”

“It is a shame that Bag End has left the Bagginses. The proper Bagginses, I mean,” Tiger Lily said.

“I don’t know why he was so keen on it. Three Hobbits have lived in that hole, and two of them have gone mad. Still, any madness that comes upon Lotho will be an improvement.”

“Four,” Tiger Lily said. “Four Hobbits have lived in Bag End.

Sango frowned in confusion. “You mean including Lotho? No, of course, your Belladonna! I forgot about her. Well, that’s still half who’ve gone mad. I wouldn’t take those odds, would you? Where do you want to go?”

Tiger Lily looked to the “Not too far. I have to back for dinner.”

“Don’t we all?”

“I mean that Buffo’s paying us a visit.” Tiger Lily hunched down between her shoulders and stuck her tongue out.

Sango snickered. “I don’t think you’re being fair on him. Just because he’s taking Opal away—”

“But he’s so old, Rowley,” she whined, “and _dull_.”

“Forty-four isn’t old. As such. And I believe the proper term is ‘respectable’. Which we are as well. Or at least I am. You’re not, with your shooting.” There was an uncomfortable edge to this last statement.

“I’ve given it up,” Tiger Lily said quickly.

“Really?” The joy was obvious in his voice. “I know you didn’t want to upset your father, but I’m so glad you’ve finally stopped. I hate having to lie to people.”

“Me too.”

They passed the barn, which was already heaving with workers under the instruction of the bailiff, who had recovered from whatever had been ailing him.

“The only lie you can bring yourself to tell,” Sango said. “I suppose telling people you don’t hunt doesn’t count as wicked?”

She looked away. “A necessary evil, Mother says.”

“Do you think the reason you can’t bear to tell any other lies is to make up for the one big one?” he said.

Tiger Lily realised that answering that question would mean thinking about herself, and pushed it away. “I don’t know. Maybe. More or less. Ooh!” She suddenly started pulling him forward. “Why don’t we go north to the stepping stones? We haven’t been up there since last winter, you remember? There had been all that rain and they were completely underwater.”

For a moment Sango hung back, unsure at the change of tone. Then he smiled, and pushed forward with her, happy to abandon the more complicated aspects of their companionship.

* * *

All day the barn had roared with the beating of flails on the threshing floor. The relative quiet clanged in Clover’s ears when she and the other Delvers made their way home that evening. Most of the way there she watched Meg, who laughed and chatted freely with Maizey and Hender. She seemed to relish the noise that pressed down on Clover.

A voice inches from her ear said, “What’s up with you?”

“Holy—!” She sprung away from the voice, clutching her chest. She glared at Jack. “How is it you make no noise when you move? Like a bloody shadow, you are.”

“You’re too easy to wind up.” Jack walked abreast of her, his hands in his pockets. “I can’t resist. And you’ve been twitchy all day, I don’t think I’ve heard you say two words together. Been thinking again?”

“Yes.” She decided this was easier than telling the truth.

“Mum says you’ll think yourself to an early grave.”

She kept her face intentionally straight. “Least you won’t have to worry about that.”

“Ooh.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “Walked into that, din’t I?”

“I’ve been practicing,” she said as they turned down the garden path to the house. 

“I wouldn’t be surprised if that was true,” Jack said, stepping over a chicken. Clover held the door open for him.

They had been at the back of the group, so by the time they got to the kitchen most of the Delvers were already sat. Clover settled in a chair between Hender and Fastad. “You all right there, lad?” she said, addressing the latter.

“Shh! I’m trying to listen,” he said, straining to see Meg at the other end of the table.

“Charming,” Clover said.

She joined him in listening to what Meg was saying while she made her way around the table, serving out slices of bread. The conversation had turned to the stranger who had been riding through the Shire the night before.

“He was not ten foot tall. I’m not sure even a big person could be _that_ big,” Meg said.

“But Cafred Budd said even his horse was taller than a house,” Danny said.

“You shouldn’t listen to him. Do you remember that time he lied about who walked through Mrs Goodenough’s rose garden?”

“Maybe it was an elf,” Myrtle said, starry eyed, while she tried to get a head start on the washing up. “Or a fairy.”

“Shouldn’t think so. He wasn’t very fair, to my mind. Nearly kicked my head off,” Meg said as she tried to round the corner of the table. “Pull your seat in, Jonson, I can’t get past.”

“It wasn’t a Mewlip, was it?” Martin said fearfully.

“For the final time, there ain’t no such thing as Mewlips,” Mr Delver said, slamming his cup on the table. He turned on his oldest son. “What have I told you about ghost stories?”

Jonson shrugged. “Din’t mean no harm.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Mrs Delver said from her place at the sideboard. “Old Mr Ramsey—do you remember him, Meg?—well, in his youth he worked out in Buckland, and he saw a Mewlip once, when he was out in marshes.”

“No, he bloody didn’t,” Mr Delver snapped. “I don’t like all this. I ain’t never seen a big person in the Shire, besides the wizard, and even he hasn’t shown his face much of late. I don’t plan on seeing any more of them at my time of life.”

Mrs Delver laughed from her place at the stove. “Old age becomes you. Help me with the taters here, Myrtle.” As Myrtle scuttled around the tables, Mrs Delver continued, “I can’t imagine we’ll see any more of the big folk. These things don’t happen twice.”

“I don’t know why everyone’s putting up such a fuss,” Jack said, leaning back in his chair. “I’m sure the big folk must be as decent as Hobbits. Or more so, in some cases.” He looked over the rim of his cup at Jonson as he drank deeply.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jonson said.

“I didn’t mean nothing,” Jack said. “Unless you’ve got something to be ashamed of.”

Mr Delver slammed his cup on the table again. “Quiet, both of you! I reckon any big person could teach you both some manners.”

“Maybe your Winden could stand to learn some, as well,” Mrs Delver said, glancing up at Meg while she served up the potatoes.

Clover tensed, and turned her eyes towards Meg, but there was no trace of grief on her sister’s face.

“I saw him this morning when I went to market—I got more pipe-weed, by the way. When I said ‘Good day’, he looked right through me.” Mrs Delver grinned. “Still, I suppose you’ll put him to rights.”

“He ain’t my Winden no more,” Meg said brightly. “We’ve broken. Does anyone want more bread?”

The other conversations that had been carrying on in the background faded into silence, and all eyes turned to Meg. Clover slumped forward, resting her elbows on the table, and pressing her fingers between her eyes. Mrs Delver’s mouth was open and she stared at her eldest daughter as she sought for something to say.

“Anyone?” Meg said, apparently oblivious to the reaction this news had caused.

“Oh, my girl,” Mrs Delver said. She abandoned her work and reached her arms out to embrace her.

But Meg stepped away, a perplexed expression on her face. “I’m fine, really. I don’t know why everyone’s putting up such a fuss.”

Mrs Delver stood with her mouth open, unsure of how to continue. “But— Wh—” She looked to her husband for support.

“Uh…” Mr Delver exhaled, and shook his head disbelievingly. “It’s just bit of a shock. You and he was courting for a long time, love,” he said finally. “And we all thought that after your birthday…” He let the rest of the sentence hang in the air.

“When did this happen?” Mrs Delver said. “You both seemed so happy yesterday, at harvest.”

“There’s your answer, then,” Meg said as she set the half-used loaf on the side, and covered it with a cloth. “It was after you lot left. We decided it was best that we don’t see each other no more.”

“What, just like that?” Jonson said.

“Yes.” Meg took her pace at the table. “Pass the jug will you, Rob?”

The meal passed in a tense silence. Silence of any kind was a rarity at the Delver table. As members of the family finished they left the hole, to see friends or play outside, until the eldest six and their parents were the only ones left.

“Thanks for dinner, Mum,” Maizey said, and scratched her nose. “Uh… I was going to head down the _Dragon_.”

“Oh, you’re not, are you?” Jonson said. “I’m still reelin’ from last night.”

“I was going to listen to what people’re saying about the big person. Just thought I’d let you know in case anyone else wants to come. Get out for a bit.” She was looking at Meg as she spoke. “Not to drink.”

“Good,” Mr Delver said, “‘cus you’ll get no money for it.”

“What about the harvest money?” Jack said.

“That’s already spoken for.”

This was code for, ‘We’re behind with the rent’. They all knew this, and their parents knew they all knew it, but still couldn’t bring themselves to say it out loud.

“Well I’m sure you’ll all have a lovely time,” Mrs Delver said, and stood up. “Now why don’t you all head off? Will you help me with the dishes, Meg?”

“I can help if you like,” Clover said.

Mrs Delver looked at her with a hard expression. “No. I asked for Nutmeg. You go and enjoy yourself.”

“I don’t mind,” Meg said, smiling at her sister.

“Come on, you,” Jonson said, dragging Clover to her feet by the arm. “See you later, Mum.”

Jonson, Jack, Clover, Rob and Maizey filed out of the hole and ended up gathered in a group on the lawn.

“Any of you know?” Rob asked, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Not at all,” Jonson said. He leaned back, and stared at the sky. “By the Holy Ones.”

Maizey was watching Clover, arms folded. “You knew, didn’t you?”

Clover nodded, avoiding making eye contact with the other four as she did. “I guessed something was up. She told me what happened.”

Jonson sighed and pushed his dark hair out of his eyes. “I’ll thrash ‘im,” he said. “You with me, Jack?”

“Not on your life,” Jack said, and walked off down the garden path.

“Rob? Don’t pretend you don’t want to.”

The large Hobbit shrugged. “Don’t reckon we should, without knowing all that happened. Mayhap it was her that wanted an end to it.”

“We have to do something. She’s been wronged.”

“Ain’t nothing to do with us.”

“It is to do with us,” Jonson said. “I’m head of the family after Dad—”

“Mum and Meg’ll have your hide if they hear you talk like that,” Jack said, leaning against a fencepost. “I don’t reckon there’s anything to do, so I’m headed to the _Dragon_. You lot coming?”

Maizey followed enthusiastically. Rob less so. Jonson and Clover stayed where they were. He was seething.

“I’ll catch up later,” Clover said. “I’ve got business in town.”

Jack raised his eyebrows. “What business?”

She edged past him onto the lane. “None of yours.”

Jonson watched her leave. “What’s wrong with you all?” he said.

“You’re the expert on lasses, not me. You coming with us or what?” Jack said.

Jonson’s shoulders sagged in defeat. “All right, fine. I’m the only one with any sense of honour around here.”

While the remaining four left for the _Green Dragon_ , Meg and their mother stood side by side in the kitchen, Meg washing and Mrs Delver drying. Mr Delver had tactfully gone into the other room. They had poured a fresh kettle into the sink, and Meg winced at the heat. But her hands had taken worse than this over the years. A small pile of plates and pots was already forming on the table, to be put away later. The only noise was that of vigorous scrubbing.

Eventually Mrs Delver said, “Why din’t you tell me?”

“I did. At dinner.”

Mrs Delver looked at her sharply. “You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t.” Meg looked at her mother with innocent blue eyes.

Mrs Delver’s brow creased. “Playing the fool don’t suit you.” She noticed a lump of potato on the knife she was drying, and put it back in the sink. “Why do I get the feeling that if I han’t mentioned him, you’d never have said anything?”

Meg’s only response was to shrug.

“I remember when your last lad left you,” Mrs Delver continued, her eyes misting over slightly. “You wept in my arms like a child.”

“I was a child.”

“Hardly.”

“Well, what would you prefer?” Meg said, trying to scrape a particularly difficult stain off a plate. “That I mope around the hole for the rest of my life?”

Mrs Delver choked on air. “For the rest of— Meg, you’re thirty-three!”

“Thirty-two.”

“Even worse.” Mrs Delver placed a handful of cutlery on the table and rested a hand on her hip. “In truth… I was uneasy with you marrying so young.”

“You did.”

Mrs Delver rolled her eyes. “Yes, I know I did. That don’t mean it’s what I want for you.” She saw the reproach in the look Meg was giving her, and continued, “That don’t mean I regret anything. I don’t, and especially not you. I love you lot with all I have, more than I have words for. But it was difficult, Meg. Sometimes I forget just how difficult it was. I don’t want you going through those same hardships.” She chuckled.

“I hate to think what I’d’ve done if you came home at twenty-six and said you was getting wed. Poor Violet nearly had a stroke. And the fuss I made when she said I’d have to wait ‘til I was of age…”

Meg paused for a moment, and stared at her mother, who returned to her work. Mrs Delver didn’t often mention her family. Growing up in Little Delving, she had been the eighth of ten children, and had been in late teens when their father died. Their mother had died only a few years later and the five youngest children had been divided amongst the five eldest, something Mrs Delver had never forgiven them for. She hadn’t seen any of them since her wedding, thirty-four years earlier. They were probably still living somewhere in Little Delving.

Mrs Delver brushed her hands off on her apron. “What I’m trying to say is that you’ll find another lad when you’re older an’ wiser, an’ you’ll be the better for it.”

“Mmm…” Meg swallowed and looked down. “Or I’ll die an old maid.”

“Don’t think that. Never. Anyway,” Mrs Delver said and licked her lips, “being an old maid wouldn’t be the worst thing. Least you’d ‘ave a peaceful life.”

“I thought you din’t regret nothin’,” Meg said.

“I don’t. But I sometimes wonder what my life might’ve been, as you do.”

“I don’t want peace,” Meg said quietly. “I want a husband. And I want little’uns.”

“And they will come in good time. At least I can rely on you to give me grandchildren. I won’t get none from Jonson or Jack. Nor Maizey, for that matter.”

“I don’t know about her. She was sweet on that dwarf once, you remember? He was staying in the _Dragon_ for a few days, while he was travelling the East Road.” Meg dropped the cup she was rinsing. “I just always thought that by the time I was of age I’d have it all done with. Like you.”

Mrs Delver snorted. “Don’t copy me. You was always much cleverer than I am.”

Meg smiled. “That ain’t true.”

“Tis the curse of every mother to think herself less than her child,” Mrs Delver said, and returned the smile warmly, “and you’ll know it yourself one of these days.”

“Aye. I suppose I will.” Her breath hitched. “Right. I think I’m finished. Can I go now?”

“If you must,” Mrs Delver said. She pulled Meg into a brief but tender hug. “There. Have a nice time, won’t you?”

“I will.” Meg smiled at her mother as she left. When she stepped outside the smile disappeared. She held her arms around herself protectively and closed her eyes. The wind stirred her hair. Opening her eyes again a moment later, she walked down the garden path, and then the lane, towards Winden’s house.


	5. The Green Dragon

Clover stood outside the Grubb’s hole and stared at the sign on the lawn. It took her a long time to draw her eyes away from the meaningless lettering, and actually focus on the smial itself. Mostly this was a delaying tactic, something to look at before she had to go in. Eventually she smoothed down her skirt, gathered her wits, and walked to the door. It was answered by the maid almost immediately. From the sound of it, there was an argument going on inside. “Yes?”

Clover did her best not to react to the noise. “I was here to ask about the maid job. Should I come back later?”

The maid raised her eyebrows. “That was quick. I’ll just go and tell Mrs Grubb. Step inside.”

The maid left Clover in the entrance hall. Every second listening to the argument in the other room was painful. It was impossible not to hear. There were three voices, two male and one female.

“It’s my money and I can spend it how I like!”

“It’s _my_ money, I bloody earn it!”

“Why can’t you both just act like civilised Hobbits?”

Occasionally a fourth voice, croaky with age, would join in with, “I’m an old lady, and I want everyone to listen to me.”

A broad-shouldered young gentlehobbit emerged from the room. “Excuse me,” he said, barely looking at Clover as he left through the front door.

“You get back here, Monno!” the elderly voice called out.

Eventually the lady of the smial came to see Clover, carrying a small pile of papers and a pencil. She tried to smile. “I understand you’re here about the maid position?”

“Yes, madam.” Clover said, bobbing a curtsey.

“Odd. I hadn’t even put the word out yet.”

The noise from the other room cut into the conversation. “Don’t you have any sense of decorum?”

“Ha! Have you looked at yourself lately?”

“Why isn’t anyone listening to me?”

Young Mrs Grubb removed her spectacles to rub her eyes. “I’m sorry, you’ve come at rather a bad time.”

“Sorry, madam. Would you like me to come back on a different day?”

“No, no. You’re here now. Could I take your name and address?”

“Clover Delver. 12 East Warren Lane.”

“Thank you,” Young Mrs Grubb said, scribbling on the paper.

“Excuse me, madam, but when are the interviews?” Clover said.

“Oh, just as and when really. Would next Wednesday do for you?” she said, looking through the papers she’d brought with her.

“Aye, madam. But my current work don’t finish ‘til the evening. That all right?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Campanula!” the elderly voice shouted.

Mrs Grubb winced. “I think that’s everything,” she said with false brightness.

“Thank you, madam,” Clover said, curtseying again. She nodded at the door. “I’ll just be off.”

Mrs Grubb smiled gratefully, and opened the door for Clover. “Thank you. And I’m sorry about the noise.”

“Ain’t nothing. My family fights worse ‘n this, when we’ve a mind to,” she said.

“Yes. I’ll see you next Wednesday.”

“Aye, madam. Thank you, madam.”

The door closed, cutting the noise of the argument off with it. Clover exhaled, and got a final look at the sign as she made her way westwards.

* * *

Buffo Bunce was a large Hobbit with a sluggish manner, an old-fashioned taste in waistcoats, and a tendency to drawl. This last trait in particular drove Tiger Lily to distraction. She scratched into the fabric of her armchair as he spoke. The air in Uncle Hortenbold’s drawing room was stale with smoke from the pipes of the Misters Took and Bunce. Out of the corner of her eye Tiger Lily could see Bandobold lying limply over the arm of his chair. He looked how she felt. It was a struggle to keep her mind from straying back to the woods, and the hunt. One of her fletchings had been partially torn away from the arrow when she had shot that pheasant. It needed repairing. Only it didn’t because she most definitely wasn’t going shooting again.

“The properties in Oatbarton have done splendidly this year as well. In all, I think 1418 will be remembered as one of the best,” Buffo said, emptying his pipe. “This is good leaf, Hortenbold. You wouldn’t believe how difficult it’s been getting any in Overhill.”

“It’s not as good as I’d like,” Uncle Hortenbold said, momentarily removing his own pipe from his mouth. “This was all they had left.”

“Your taste is obviously more sophisticated than mine. Longbottom is doing less well, evidently. Would you pour some tea, my dear?”

This last comment was directed at Opal, who was sat beside him, and who he always called ‘my dear’. Opal leaned forward on the settee to pour him a cup, which she then handed to him.

“There we are.” She sat back, leaning against his shoulder.

“Thank you.” He took a sip, and returned his attention to Uncle Hortenbold. “I’ll have to bring you some leaf back from Michel Delving. They’ll have some good stuff there.”

“I hope we won’t just be spending time in the tobacconist’s,” Opal said. “You promised I could get some sheet music.”

“Oh, if we must,” he smiled at her in a way that made Tiger Lily dig her nails further into her seat. He nodded at Opal’s mother. “And I’m sure Mistress Mertensia won’t allow me to neglect you, in any case.”

“I won’t. And I won’t let you get too affectionate either,” Aunt Mertensia said.

Opal scowled. “Mother!”

“Well, that’s really the only reason I’m going with you, my girl.”

Tiger Lily had stopped listening. She had let her mind wander away from the smoke and the smial, and even the fletching, to return to the woods. There, nothing mattered besides her aim, and the world existed only in shades of blue and black. She ran light-footed over the earth, barely touching the ground at all. The air on her neck. The moonlight on her limbs. No one else need know she existed. She was nothing but shadow between the trees. An elven huntress.

“Will you stop it?” her mother said in a harsh whisper.

Tiger Lily snapped back into reality and looked at her mother in bewilderment. “What?”

“You’ll tear the upholstery.”

She looked down at her hands, and realised she was still picking at the armchair. “Sorry,” she mumbled, and placed her hands in her lap.

This seemed to catch Buffo’s attention, because he said, “And how have you been, Miss Tiger Lily?”

“Fine, thank you,” she said weakly.

“Yes?” He rested the side of his head in his hand. “Any interesting outings?”

“Uh… Yesterday I went to the harvest festival. At the Boffin’s Farm, you know?”

“Really? With the rustics?” He raised an eyebrow and a corner of his mouth twitched. He looked over at her father, who occupied the seat to Tiger Lily’s left. “I’m surprised you allowed it.”

Aferbold, who had been in his own personal world filled with elves and fairies, sat up sharply. “I saw no harm in it. The Boffins are a good family.”

Tiger Lily sometimes wished she had his ability to immediately join in with a conversation he hadn’t been listening to. It obviously wasn’t passed down in the blood.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Buffo glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Is that the time?” He got to his feet inelegantly. “I won’t intrude on your hospitality any longer, sir.” He bowed to Uncle Hortenbold, who nodded back. “I’ll see you all soon.” He gave another slight bow to the room in general.

“I’ll walk with you to the door,” Opal said, following him from the room.

When Buffo and Opal had left, Tiger Lily’s mother leaned over to speak to Aunt Mertensia. “I’m sorry about the chair,” she said quietly, as though lowering her voice slightly would make it impossible for Tiger Lily to hear.

“Quite all right,” Aunt Mertensia said. “I doubt there’s any lasting damage.” She smiled at Tiger Lily in the way one smiles at a child.

Bandobold, who hadn’t moved since Tiger Lily had last looked at him, said, “Can we go home now?”

“So impatient,” Aferbold said, rousing himself from his chair. “I suppose we should, once Mr Bunce has gone. Brother?”

Uncle Hortenbold drew deeply from his pipe. “It’s not that I dislike your company, but do return my home to me at the earliest opportunity.”

“Look what I found,” Opal said, walking back into the room, followed closely by Sango. She was surreptitiously dabbing at the beeswax she’d coloured her lips with. It had become mysteriously smudged since she’d left the room with Buffo.

“Hello, Tooks,” he said, grinning sheepishly, and bowing. “Could I borrow you, Tills? Preferably for the rest of the evening.”

Tiger Lily’s father returned the smile. “Do. You can keep her, if you like.”

“She’s not a stray cat,” his wife said. “Even if she does destroy the furniture,” she added under her breath.

Tiger Lily kept her head bowed as she followed Sango out of the room. “Is everything all right?” she whispered while they walked down the main passage of the smial.

“I went to the wheelwright’s,” he said. “Lavender wasn’t there, but her brother said she’d gone to the _Green Dragon_ with their little sister.” He held the front door open for Tiger Lily.

A chill went down her spine as the night air hit her. She hadn’t bothered to bring a cloak with her, and was regretting it. “Yes?”

“So I’m going too.”

“All right.” They crossed the bridge over the Water. “Why do you need me to go with you?”

“I can’t go by myself, she’ll think I’m only going to see her,” Sango said.

“But you are,” Tiger Lily said, surprised.

“But she mustn’t know that. I don’t want to seem too keen.”

“So, to be clear,” she said slowly. “You want me to go with you not for my company, but so you can trick a lass into believing you’re _not_ following her.”

“It’s not like that,” Sango said lightly.

“It is a little.” She shivered and rubbed her hands up and down her bare arms, though at the moment the temperature wasn’t her biggest concern. The thought of the inn, or more accurately all the people in it, was making her heart rate quicken. Sweat was forming on her palms.

Sango watched her from the corner of his eye. “Here.” He took off his jacket, and placed it around her shoulders.

“Thank you,” she said, and snuggled down between the lapels. It smelled of Sango, which meant rose-water and hay. Her heart started to slow back down into its normal rhythm. “It was so sunny yesterday.”

“Every year we’re taken by surprise when it starts to get colder or warmer. You think we’d get used to it,” he said.

“It’s the same with when the nights draw in and out,” Tiger Lily said from the folds of the jacket. “Father always comments on how quickly it changes.”

He laughed. “Maybe we never get used to it because we never really grow up. We’re all just very tall children pretending we know what we’re doing.”

“I hope that’s how everyone feels,” she said. “Then I’m not the only one.”

* * *

Meg arrived at the _Green Dragon_ a few moments after Clover, who waited at the door for her. She had expected her sister to have gone in at the same time as the others. Groaning internally, she smiled. “I’d’ve thought you’d been in a while ago,” she said.

Clover watched her intently. “Could say the same of you.”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

They locked eyes, each daring the other to surrender first. In the end it was Clover who first turned her eyes downwards and pushed the door to the inn open, Meg following after her. She decided not to ask why Meg’s eyes were so red.

It seemed that most of Bywater and Hobbiton had decided that the _Dragon_ was the best place to go to hear of the stranger who’d ridden through the night before, because there were crowds of Hobbits around every table. The blazing fire, combined with the uncountable candles and Hobbits, made the room almost unbearably hot. A cool layer of steam covered every window. Maizey waved to her older sisters when they entered, and they managed to shuffle their way past the other patrons to reach the table Maizey and the others had somehow managed to find.

“All right, you two? Been scheming?”

“That’s right,” Meg said, settling down in a free chair. “We’re planning to lose you in the woods.”

“I’ll help if you like,” Jack said.

“What’s up with him?” Clover said, nodding at Jonson, who was glowering out into the crowd.

“Lavender’s here,” Jack said, “trying to make ‘im jealous. Is it working?” he asked Jonson innocently.

“Shut it.”

“Where is she?” Meg said, turning in her chair and straining to see through the crowd.

“Over there, with Ripon Westcott.”

Meg eventually caught sight of Lavender, who was sat in Ripon’s lap and wearing a bodice that was much too small for her.

“I don’t think I’ll bother her just now,” Meg said quietly. She turned back to her siblings.

“It ain’t fair,” Jonson whined, burying his head in his hands.

“You did go off with Bluebell Ansley,” Jack said. “Really you brought this on yourself.”

Jonson groaned and hunched down further. “She seduced me. With ‘er charms.”

“Ha!”

“Please stop,” Maizey said, grimacing.

“So what’ve you learned about the big person?” Meg said, in an attempt to keep the peace.

Maizey leaned forward and placed her hands on the table. “Apparently he headed up to Hobbiton, and then he went off east. And they say there were more, a hundred maybe.”

“But why?” Clover said.

“Well, _I_ think they were heading for Tuckborough,” Maizey said, obviously relishing her role as storyteller. “The Tooks are always meeting with fairies and demons aren’t they?”

“Are they?” Clover said. Her tone of voice made it clear that she thought they didn’t.

“Of course they are,” Maizey said. “Everyone knows they do.”

Meg felt someone lean against the back of her chair, and twisted around to see Primrose standing over her.

“Hello. Sorry for the intrusion, I just came here to escape Bosed Yardley.” She looked warily back at the lad, who was still watching her with a dejected expression.

“Another spurned suitor, eh?” Jack said, grinning. “What’s wrong with this one?”

“Oh, nothing,” Primrose said quickly. “He seemed lovely. But for someone else, not for me.”

“Mmm.”

Primrose was considered a great beauty in Bywater, to go with her sweet temper. Her lips were plump and inclined to smiling, her hazel eyes were merry and heavily lashed. She hadn’t had a lad for a few years, though this was not for want of offers. “How are you all doing, then?” she said.

“Well enough,” Maizey said. “How’s everyone your end?”

“Good, thanks. Lavender’s around here somewhere. Lavender!” She beckoned for her sister to come over.

“No, don’t—” Jonson began.

But Lavender was already disentangling herself from Master Westcott and making her way over, hips swaying. She mimicked her sister, leaning against the back of Rob’s chair. “Busy in here today, ain’t it? Usually it’s right quiet the night after harvest.”

“Um, Lavender,” Meg said as quietly as she could. “You might want to stand up a bit straighter.”

“What?”

Meg cast a meaningful look at Rob, and then back at her friend. Lavender looked down and realised that Rob was hunching forward as far as possible to avoid making contact with her bosom. She grinned and nudged his shoulder playfully. “All right, lad? Fancy a tumble in the bushes later?”

“No thank you, miss,” he said, hunching his shoulders more.

She laughed. “You don’t need to be afeard of me, I’m only teasing. There, now.” She stood up straight and moved away from his chair. “You can sit up proper again.”

“Lavender,” Jonson said, “I’m sitting right here.”

She gave him a haughty look from the corner of her eye. “Yes, I know.”

“Look at you all,” Primrose said, flustered. “Got nearly the full set here. What’s the occasion?”

The siblings glanced around at each other, reluctant to say anything. It was Meg who spoke first, smiling as she did. “My new found freedom.”

Lavender’s brow creased. “Eh? How’s that then?”

“Winden and me’ve parted ways.”

One of Primrose’s hands flew to her open mouth. “Oh, no!”

Lavender’s mouth hung in an ‘o’ shape, while she tried to formulate what to say next. “Right,” she said eventually. “You seem to ‘ve taken it well.”

Meg shrugged. “It’s like you said, ain’t no point getting upset over a lad.”

Lavender glanced at Jonson. “Aye. Quite right too. Come on, let me buy you a drink.”

Jonson rose to his feet as they left, and went to grasp Primrose’s hand.

“Primrose, have I told you of late that you are the prettiest lass in Bywater and beyond?”

She laughed uncertainly, and withdrew her hand. “Away with you, Jonson. I’ll not dishonour my sister.”

“Primrose, please—”

“No.” She perched on Meg’s vacated seat.

Jonson sighed. “All right. But I’ll pine for you.” He searched the crowd.

Clover followed his gaze to a comely lass. “Tansy Atterton. Really, Jonson? She’s such a gossip.”

“I hear she and Artie have broken. And she’s always been very fond of me.” He grinned, and started to make his way through the crowd. “Things could always be worse.”

“Please don’t go,” Jack said. “I was having fun.”

“I hate you.”

Maizey gestured at the table, “Why do I bother if you’re all going to wander off as soon as you get here?”

Jonson didn’t reply. “Tansy! Lass!” He waved to her.

“They’re as bad as each other,” Clover said in weary resignation.

“Reckon so. They’re perfect for each other, really. But Lavender don’t go back to lads she’s finished with,” Primrose said. She looked at Clover. “I suppose you was right about the wedding, then.”

“What?” Rob said.

“Nothing,” Clover said quickly. “Just we was talking about the wedding yesterday. Bloody awful, ain’t it?”

Jack shrugged. “I never liked Winden. I reckon she’s well rid of ‘im.”

“But _she_ liked Winden,” Rob said miserably.

“Am I allowed to ask what happened?” Primrose said.

“We don’t know either. She says they just decided to end it, but I don’t believe her. I reckon he saw he’d have to make good on his promises in a fortnight, and got out while he could,” Jack said.

“Do you really think he’d do that?” Primrose said, wide eyed. “Just throw her away at a moment’s notice?”

“Yes,” Maizey said. “Definitely.”

Primrose turned her eyes to the ground. “I can’t imagine. To be getting wed one minute and the next…”

No one said anything until Primrose stood from her seat. “I think I’ll head off now. Free up this seat for someone else. Give my love to Meg won’t you?”

“Will do,” Clover said, leaning back. “See you later.”

At the bar Meg was draining her tankard, while Lavender watched, eyebrows raised. She brought the tankard down on the bar with a heavy thump.

“You might want to slow down,” Lavender said. “I ain’t rich enough to keep you going all night, if that’s how fast you down ‘em.”

“I’ve made such a mess of things, Lav,” Meg said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Such a bloody mess.”

“What, with Winden?” Lavender said.

Meg nodded, and gave a single sob.

“Hey now.” Lavender made to pull her into a hug, but Meg stepped away.

“Don’t touch me!”

Lavender hung back, frowning. “Sorry… Ain’t no need to get snippy with me.”

Meg did her best to compose herself. “Sorry, Lavender. I’m all right really.”

“You don’t seem that ‘all right’,” Lavender said. “What’s actually going on?”

Meg started tugging at her hair. “Could— could I talk to you? Not now. Tomorrow?”

“Course you can, I’ve known you since I was born. Come round after work.”

“Where’s my lusty lass, then?” Ripon’s voice called out from the din that made up the background noise.

“Not now, Ripon!” Lavender shouted back.

“Go,” Meg said, brushing down her skirt.

“I’m not leaving you when you’re upset,” Lavender said.

“I said ‘go’. He’ll be much better company than me,” Meg said, taking Lavender by the shoulders and turning her around to face Ripon.

“Meg—”

At this Meg gave her a little shove forward. Lavender reluctantly returned to her swain, giving Meg a concerned look over her shoulder as she did. She let herself be pulled back into his lap without any enthusiasm. Meg watched them. Clover watched Meg. She looked completely lost. Clover knew that look. To be completely alone, regardless of how many people are around you. She got to her feet, made her excuses to the increasingly annoyed Maizey, and pushed her way through to the bar. When Meg saw her, the relief shone through in a smile.

“What can I do for you, little’un?”

“I know I’ve only just got here. But I was thinking of going home now,” Clover said.

“You never did like inns,” Meg said. “Ain’t natural for a Hobbit.”

“I know, sorry. But, I was wondering if you’d go home with me? Don’t fancy walking out at night by myself, with all this talk of Mewlips and demons.”

Meg closed her eyes. “Course I can. That’s what I’m here for.” She perked up suddenly and started leading Clover to the door. “Can’t have you walking home all afraid.”

Clover smiled faintly to herself as they walked out into the night. Outside they passed Sango and Tiger Lily, who were sat side-by-side on a bench by the door.

“It’s all right. There’s no rush,” he said.

Tiger Lily was hunched over, trembling, and hugging Sango’s jacket so tightly the seams were in danger of tearing. They hadn’t made it inside yet.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she half-sobbed.

“Stop,” Sango said, rubbing his forehead. “Look, I think you should go back. It’s not worth all of this.”

“But then I’ll have failed. I’ll have failed and let you down. Mother said—” Tiger Lily straightened up her posture, and tried to slow her breathing. “Mother says that the more I do things, the easier things will be. I wish I could skip this part and go straight to it being easier.” She managed a little laugh.

“Wouldn’t we all?” Sango said, and smiled lopsidedly.

Tiger Lily covered her face with her hands and made on odd whimpering noise into them. When she removed her hands she got to her feet and said, “That’s it. I think I need to go in now. Or run away, either one would suit me. But I need to do one of them right this moment.” She held Sango’s jacket out for him to put on.

“Good,” he said brightly, and sprung up onto his feet. “Let’s do the first, and if it’s too much you can try the second instead.” He pushed his arms through the sleeves, and straightened his lapels.

“You’re so good,” Tiger Lily said just as he opened the door. “I don’t know how you can stand to be around me.”

“I’m a very patient Hobbit,” he said, “and you’re not as hard to put up with as you sometimes think.”

The wall of noise hit Tiger Lily so hard that it might have been a solid structure. Instinctively, she reached out to grasp Sango’s arm. Something soft and familiar in a room full of strangers and eyes.

“You’re all right,” he said gently as he led her through the crowd to the bar.

Without warning her grip tightened and she pulled him around to face her. “I’ve changed my mind,” she said. “I think we should go.”

Sango raised his eyebrows. “Tills, if you want to go then do, but I’m staying.”

Tiger Lily said nothing. She was trying to keep her face blank, and was doing too good a job.

“What’s wrong?” he said.

“Nothing.” Her line of gaze momentarily flickered to something happening off to the side.

When he made to turn around Tiger Lily grasped his arm, saying, “No, Rowley, don’t—”

He ignored her and froze when he saw Lavender in Ripon’s lap, her arms draped around his shoulders.

“Sorry,” Tiger Lily said quietly.

Sango said nothing, but stared at Lavender, his lips slightly parted. Eventually he said, “Do you mind if I…?” His voice was on the edge of tears.

“Go,” Tiger Lily said. “I’ll stay, if you need me.”

Sango didn’t look back at Tiger Lily, or ever take his eyes off Lavender as he approached. When she saw him, she smiled and stood. “Evening, young master.” When she saw his expression her smile faded. “You look like a kicked whelp.”

Sango held his breath for a moment. Her eyelashes caught the light from the candles, and a flush bloomed in her cheeks from the heat of the inn. He tried to gather his thoughts. “We’re…” he said helplessly. “That is, I thought that we were courting.”

She raised her eyebrows, “You sent me away.”

Sango felt his face going very warm. “Yes. Well. That didn’t mean— Could we speak outside, please? Alone.”

“If we must.” She picked up her tankard as they left.

Outside, she sat on a bench and looked at Sango expectantly. “What did you want talk about, then?”

“You don’t know?” He was thrown off by how calm she was. He had expected her to be angry, defensive, but she only sat, perfectly at ease, and watched him impassively. Like she was only passing through, and not involved with the events personally. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Surely you know why I’m upset.”

She shrugged, unconcerned. “I reckon I do. But I want t’ hear you say it. So I knows we’re thinking the same.”

Sango sat next to her and stared at the shadowy hills that filled the view ahead. “Why were you with that lad? I thought we were courting.”

“Why?” She took a sip from her tankard. “Did I tell you we were?”

He hesitated. “Not as such. But the things you said and did led me to believe—”

“And you sending me from your house led me to believe you din’t want to see me again.” She rested her tankard on the bench beside her. “So I went in search of someone who would.”

Sango kept his eyes to the ground and twisted his fingers together. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”

“You didn’t.” When she saw his confused expression she laughed. “You’re only a lad. Plenty more just like you.” She watched as he squirmed. “Have I upset you?”

“A little.” He looked at Lavender. “Do you really think that?”

“Aye.” She slouched back, and spread her arms out flat over the back of the bench. “It’s not just you, all lads are only lads.”

Sango ran his tongue over his teeth. “What about Jonson Delver? Didn’t you feel any tenderness for him?”

“Not much.”

“Then why were you upset that he betrayed you?” Sango wailed. “I want to understand.”

Lavender huffed and got up from the bench. “I don’t ‘ave to explain myself to you. I don’t know you.” She folded her arms.

“I would very much like to know you,” Sango said.

She raised a critical eyebrow. “Usually when lads say that they mean something else.”

“What do they usually mean?” He watched her with wide, innocent eyes.

An amused smile quirked Lavender’s lips. “Sweet lad.” She sat back next to him, and looked on him more tenderly than before. “You don’t want me. Not really.”

“I do,” he said earnestly, and took her hands.

“I think you don’t understand me.” She withdrew her hands, but not with anger. “And that you wouldn’t like it if you did.”

“Can’t you let me find out for myself?” Sango said. “Let me court you. Please.”

She groaned and threw her head back. “But what’s the point if I can’t bed you?” Even in the half-light she could see the colour touching his face. “Aw, bless,” she said, and reached out to stroke his hair. “You’re not like most of the lads I know.”

“Is that good or bad?”

She leaned forward, and rested her chin on her balled fist. “A little of both, I reckon. You’re more tender ‘n them.” She seemed to reach a decision and sat up. “All right then, young master— Can I call you ‘Sango’?”

“Certainly.”

“Then, Sango, you can court me.”

The effect was immediate. Sango sat up straight, beaming. “Truly?”

“I said so, din’t I?”

He laughed a little in his excitement. “I do it all properly,” he said quickly. “I’ll be the perfect gentlehobbit, and tomorrow I’ll call on your father to ask for his permission to woo you.”

“You what?” Lavender said, taking up her tankard again.

“Well, that’s what you do,” Sango said, recalling the things his father had told him on this subject.

“You don’t ‘ave to,” she said, giving him a withering look. “Honestly.”

“But I want to,” he clasped her hands again. “I want to do it all properly. I know you’re not from a…” He sought for the right words. “An old family, but I want to treat you like a lady.” He pressed his lips to her hand, and looked up at her.

Her expression was somewhere between bemused and touched. “All right then, Sango,” she said. “If it makes you feel better.” She stood. “I’m headed back inside. You to join me?”

“If you want me to,” he said and watched her. He was completely enthralled.

She smiled and leaned down to kiss him. In her low, velvety voice she said, “Good lad.”

In the meantime Tiger Lily had been inside, her back pressed firmly against the wall. She didn’t dare move, in case she got in anyone’s way, and the heat was starting to make her feel light headed. But deep in her bones she knew she couldn’t leave before she knew what was going on with Sango. _I have to be here_ , she thought. _In case he needs me. Even if it hurts_.

Maizey alone watched her with mild interest. “Ain’t that Master Sango’s lass?” she said eventually, drawing the attention of her brothers.

“Looks like it,” Jack said, squinting. “What’s she doing?”

“Not much,” Maizey said. She looked at the tankards in the hands of the other patrons and sighed. “I wish I had something to drink.”

“No, you don’t,” Jack said.

“Ain’t fair,” Maizey said.

Rob was only half-listening to this conversation. The rest of his attention was being directed at Tiger Lily, and everyone around her. They were all drinking and talking amongst themselves, and seemed completely oblivious to her presence. Silently, he willed someone to take pity on her, so that he wouldn’t have to. He knew from their meeting that she wasn’t the most outgoing Hobbit, but there were so many people there that surely, he thought, there must be someone who knew her. If there was, they didn’t come forward. Damn. Rob awkwardly got to his feet. He did most things awkwardly, in consequence of his size.

“You’re not leaving too, are you?” Maizey said.

“Nah.”

“Where’re you off to, then?”

He shrugged wordlessly, too embarrassed to say anything. As Rob approached, he got a better look at Tiger Lily’s expression. The look in her eyes put him in mind of a rabbit he once saw caught in a snare, still alive. That of pure, blind terror.

“Hello, Miss Took,” he mumbled.

Tiger Lily’s head whipped around to look at him. When she saw who it was, her expression changed into something like relief. “Oh, it’s you, Master Rob,” she said in a tremulous voice. Her fingers were fidgeting with the sash around her waist, and her breast heaved with quick intakes of air. Rob only noticed her hands.

“Just saw you was by yourself,” he said. “You looked a little out of sorts.”

“Oh, I’m fine,” she said, and tried to laugh. “I’m just waiting for Ro— Master Sango. But I’m all right, you needn’t worry. Not that you would.” She paused for breath. “It was kind of you to ask, though,” she finished pathetically.

Rob’s eyes were drawn back to her hands. “You’re shaking,” he said.

“Oh.” She wiped her hands on her skirt, seemingly just for something different to do with them. “Sorry. I’m just being silly.” She tried to smile.

Rob looked back at the table where Maizey and Jack were still sat. “Look, why don’t you sit with us while you wait for Master Sango? Might help you calm down.”

“I wouldn’t like to intrude,” she said.

He shrugged. “Ain’t no trouble. It’s just there if you want it.”

Tiger Lily glanced at the door. It didn’t look like Sango would be back any time soon. And she did feel like she might have a turn if she stayed as she was for much longer. “That’s so kind,” she said.

Maizey and Jack pretended they weren’t watching as Rob returned.

“She’s the one what was spying on ‘im yesterday,” Jack said out of the corner of his mouth.

Maizey snorted, carefully keeping her face turned away from the approaching pair.

“It all right if Miss Took sits with us a while?” Rob said.

“It is,” Jack said, and nodded at her. “Evening, miss.”

“Hello,” Tiger Lily said, gingerly taking a seat.

“My brother Jack and sister Maizey,” Rob said.

“It’s lovely to meet you,” she said, smiling nervously.

Maizey tried to repress a smirk, and said, “Taken a liking to our Rob, have you?”

Tiger Lily’s smile remained, but her brow creased in confusion. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

“Don’t pay me no mind.” Maizey glanced at Rob, who was scowling at her. “We was just talking about the big person what was in the Shire last night. Know about ‘im?”

“Yes. I think I’ve heard something about that.” Tiger Lily had overheard a couple of the maids gossiping about it that morning. She suspected that revealing the particulars of this wouldn’t be a good idea.

“D’you know if that had anything to do with your lot?”

“My lot?”

“You know, the Tooks. Wizards and demons and that.”

“Maizey,” Rob said warningly.

“I don’t know about that,” Tiger Lily said, looking at her lap. “I don’t think we do anything like that anymore.”

“Oh.” Maizey looked slightly deflated.

“But you do have other quirks, don’t you?” Jack said, smiling devilishly. “I heard Tooks even teach their ladyfolk to hunt.”

Tiger Lily froze. She tried to speak, but the words choked her. He knew. How did everyone know? Her eyes wandered over the empty table, in search of a way to change the subject. “Are you not drinking?” she asked.

None of the Delvers said anything. They couldn’t quite meet each other’s eyes.

“No,” Jack said, folding his arms.

Tiger Lily sense that she had struck a nerve, and elected not to reply. Neither did anyone else.

“I’m going home,” Jack said eventually. “See you lot later.” 

Tiger Lily kept her eyes turned down as he left, willing herself to disappear from sight. _That was your fault_ , one half of her mind whispered to the other half. _I don’t know how, but it was yours fault_.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly.

“You din’t mean nothing,” Maizey said. “It’s just our coffers won’t stretch to it right now.”

Tiger Lily took a deep breath. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t think. I could buy us some drinks, if you like.”

This caused another uncomfortable silence she hadn’t anticipated.

“You don’t ‘ave to,” Rob said.

“I don’t mind,” Tiger Lily said, reaching into a pocket and bringing out a small embroidered coin purse.

Rob studied her expression closely. He was searching for some indication that there was mockery behind this offer. A curl of the lip, an arching of the eyebrows. But he found nothing but open, stupid kindness.

“All right then,” Maizey said, “if you’re offering.”

Tiger Lily smiled, glad to be of help. She looked at Rob. “And you?”

“Go on, Rob,” Maizey said, grinning. “Answer the lady.”

Rob glared at Maizey as he said, “Thank you, miss.” When Tiger Lily had gone to the bar he leaned over to his sister. “Stop being a nuisance. We don’t accept charity, you know that.”

“If you and her was to wed, we’d be rich,” she said. “All you need to do is charm ‘er away from Master Sango.”

Rob leaned back in his seat and folded his arms. “Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m sure you could manage it if you talked more.”

“I ain’t listening to you.”

“Jonson could give you some help if you needed it—”

“There we are,” Tiger Lily set three tankards of beer on the table.

“Thank you, miss,” Maizey said and rose, taking her tankard with her. “I’ll just leave you two, then. Alone.”

“No. Maizey!” Rob reached out to grab her arm, but she was too quick for him. He and Tiger Lily looked at each other.

Tiger Lily sipped her beer and sought for something to say. “So, you—”

“So did—”

They hesitated.

“I’m sorry—”

“Sorry, you—”

Rob snorted and covered his eyes. Tiger Lily laughed lightly.

“We ain’t good at this, are we?” Rob said.

“I’m not. I can’t speak for you.”

“What was you going to say?”

Tiger Lily rested her jaw on her hands. “Just that you mentioned your brothers yesterday, but not that you had a sister.”

He sighed. “Aye, I got some of them as well. Proper mob, we are.”

“It must be nice having so much family.”

He shrugged. “Is and isn’t. Means there’s someone there to lend a hand. Has its difficulties.” He turned his arm to hide a hole in his sleeve. “It’s so messy all the time, and you don’t get no peace.”

“I think I know what you mean. We stayed in the Great Smials once when I was little, and it was so noisy. I would swear there are hundreds of Tooks in that place.” A shiver passed down her spine at the memory of a certain aunt. “Do all of you work at the farm?”

“All ‘cept our Mum and the littlest lass. They stay at home to keep everything in order.”

“Oh.”

Silence descended. Tiger Lily fiddled with her coin purse and tried to think of something to say. “So… Um… What did you do on the farm today, now that the harvest is over?”

He drank from his tankard, and wiped his mouth with a forearm. “Well, I was out ditching. Soil’s heavy on the east fields, and we don’t want ‘em getting flooded over winter.”

“Gosh, that sounds hard. How do you know which fields have which soil?”

Rob smiled. He didn’t often get a chance to show off his knowledge on the intricacies of field drainage. “Well—”

Tiger Lily sipped her beer and listened. This was so far removed from anything spoken of in drawing rooms that she found herself being drawn in. Real people doing real things out of doors. She watched him like he was the most fascinating Hobbit in the world. When he had finished she said, “I wouldn’t know where to start with all that. It must take an awful lot of skill.”

Again, he searched for some sign that she was being insincere, but found none. “Guess so.”

“It must be nice to do things,” Tiger Lily said. “To be able to look at something and know you made a difference today.” There was a wistful look in her eyes.

He scratched his head. “Ain’t never thought about it before.” There was silence again. This time it was Rob who decided to end it. He leaned his elbows on the table, and pointed at the coin purse that was still in Tiger Lily’s hands. “You do that sewing yourself?”

“Oh. Yes.” She scratched at the stitching. She had been taught to embroider because every well-to-do young lady was taught. Similarly, she could play the piano and paint, but had no talent or passion for either. Her embroidery wasn’t any better. When out in public she always tried to keep the embroidered front of her reticule hidden by facing it into her skirt. The coin purse itself was supposed to show a field of buttercups, with a phrase arching over the scene in angular letters. Really though, it looked more like she’d been using it to swat a group of large yellow flies.

“It’s nice,” he said politely.

She smiled sadly. “Thank you.”

“What are the words?” Rob said.

Tiger Lily looked at the text. “It says, ‘A maiden is as the spring flowers’.” She grinned apologetically. “Mother’s idea, not mine.”

“Right.” He kept his eyes on the stitching. “How’s that?”

She blinked at him. “Pardon?”

Rob shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “I was asking how maids are like flowers.”

“Oh, of course, sorry. Well, I suppose they’re both beautiful, brief…” She had wondered the same thing while she’d been making the embroidery. She giggled. “They both attract bees?”

He grinned at her. “Sounds about right to me.”

It occurred to Tiger Lily that she’d forgotten Sango. She cast her eyes about the inn, and spotted him, sat in the corner with Lavender. He looked happier than she’d seen him for a long time.

“Sango’s back, look,” she said. “I suppose they worked everything out.” An unfamiliar pang of envy struck her. “Good.”

Rob took a long drink from his tankard, unsure of how to proceed. “Everyone thinks you’re his lass,” he said.

She glanced at him, surprised. “Really?”

He nodded.

A slightly confused look crossed her face. “Oh. I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised. Mother thinks we’re in love. I’ve never courted so she’s taken that to mean…” A sour expression appeared on Tiger Lily’s face. “But I didn’t think… Everyone? Really?”

Rob shrugged. “Don’t pay no mind to it. Folk’ll think what they think.”

“That’s true,” she said, her eyes glazing over for a moment. “Very much true.” Tiger Lily pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth. “I think I might go home now. Sango obviously has no need of me,” she said, and smiled at Rob. “It was lovely seeing you again.”

Rob watched her rise. “You want I should walk you?”

Her brow creased in confusion. “No, why?”

It was his turn to be confused. “Well, you know. With the big folk and all.”

She shrugged lightly. “I’m not afraid of them. But it was very kind of you to offer. Goodbye, Master Rob. Thank you for letting me sit with you.”

“Don’t think nothing of it. Goodbye, Miss Tiger Lily.”

She looked back at Sango and Lavender, and stopped. They were laughing. There was the envy again. She turned back to Rob. “Master Rob, would you… Um…” She gripped the back of the chair she’d been sitting in. She was trembling again. “Could we go for a walk one day? Only if you want to. We could walk up to Hobbiton and get fish and chips…” She groaned and passed a hand over her face.

Rob leaned back and shrugged. “All right.”

Tiger Lily removed her hand and looked at him questioningly. “Honestly?”

“Yes?”

“Oh!” In her surprise, she began to laugh. “What— what day would be best for you?”

He smiled to himself at her reaction. “I get off work at noon on a Friday.”

She smiled brightly. “All right. Should we meet on the main road to Hobbiton?”

“It’s as good a place as any.”

“Good. See you then, then.” She made to leave, but turned back to him again. “Goodbye again.”

“And you, miss.”

He watched her bid goodbye to Sango, who was preoccupied by Lavender. Before she left, she glanced back at him and grinned broadly, fizzing with excitement. Rob stared at the ceiling and exhaled. He heard someone come and sit in the seat next to him, but didn’t turn his head.

“You charmed ‘er yet?” Maizey said.

“Push off.”

* * *

Monno Grubb was sat alone beneath a tree, with his feet in one of the shallower stretches of the Water. He was a good distance away from Bywater and its surrounding villages. Beside him there was a small paper bag. Every few seconds he picked it up and placed it in his lap, or back on the grass curling and uncurling the top. Eventually he turned his head as he became aware of another Hobbit on the road, and stood up. It was Primrose. She had removed the ribbon from her hair, and her lustrous dark curls brushed her neck and shoulders as she walked. Monno broke into a relieved grin.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” he said.

“Sorry. I was delayed. You’ll catch a chill dangling your feet in the water like that.”

“Sorry.” He kissed her cheek and handed her the bag. A glance inside revealed the contents to be comfits. “Thank you,” she said. “Would you like one?”

“I’m fine, thank you.” He took her arm and they started to walk. “I’m so glad to see you. Dalgo’s been unbearable today.”

Primrose winced as Monno continued. She understood he needed someone to talk to, and that things had been difficult since his father died. But she had come to dread the initial few minutes of their meetings, when he would complain about anything and everything his family had done that day.

“Are you all right?” he asked, bringing her out of her reflection. “You seem very distant.”

“Sorry. I was thinkin’ about a friend of mine. Well, a friend of a friend. And just…” She removed her arm from his so she could face him properly. “You will make things right between us, won’t you? Like you promised?”

Monno looked taken aback. “Yes, of course. Why would you think otherwise?”

“Could you _please_ speak to my dad, then?” she said. “I know you want to wait ‘til I’m of age, but I’m sure he’d would let us wed now if you asked, he’d be thrilled to ‘ave one of us marry into a rich family.” The speed with which she spoke revealed the level of her anxiety.

Monno placed his hands on her shoulders. She noticed the ink stains on his shirt cuffs. “I won’t shackle you to me so young. What’s five years betrothal to a lifetime of marriage?”

She gently pushed his hands away. “It would give me peace of mind if others knew of us.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not sure the time is right yet. Everything’s still so fractious at home.”

Primrose gave up, and sighed. “No, of course. Sorry, I wasn’t thinkin’.”

Monno enveloped her in his sturdy arms. “We will marry one day. I promise.”

Primrose buried her face in his waistcoat. He smelled of paper and soap, a far cry from the sweat and sawdust of the workshop. She wanted to say, ‘I know,’ but couldn’t quite manage it.


	6. Sango and Tiger Lily

“And you asked him, just like that?”

“Yes.”

_“How?”_

Tiger Lily looked up from the flowers in her hands and shrugged. She and Sango were sat by a shallow stream, and had been there for most of the afternoon. Now the sun was setting, touching the tops of the trees with gold, and they would have to go home soon. But there was still a few more minutes to be spent in this Arcadia.

He was crouched atop the opposite bank with a fishing net, which he had been intending to use to catch frogs, but so far his efforts had been fruitless. A large glass jar sat on the grass beside him. Tiger Lily had also brought a net, but it lay discarded beside her. Instead she had gone to collect wildflowers, and now she was weaving the fading poppies, cornflowers and cow parsley into a loop. She had already made one earlier in the afternoon, and was now wearing it as a crown. Her feet were nestled among the reeds. Sango’s waistcoat lay beside her to keep it safe from the water. He only ever wore a jacket if the temperature or social situation made it essential, and today it was pleasant enough to be without one.

“I don’t know, really. I can’t tell you how frightened I was,” she said. There was a little stone bridge to her left, which lent an echo to her voice.

“And more to the point,” Sango said, and wiped his damp hands on his breeches. “Why?” He made an unsuccessful swoop for a frog that was sat among the reeds. “Blast!”

Tiger Lily lay back on the bank and closed her eyes, flowers strewn across her lap. “I refer you to my previous answer.” She lazily brushed her fingertips across the ends of the wild grass. The gurgling of the stream was slightly distorted by the bridge. Somewhere there were birds singing.

“You will be careful, won’t you?”

She opened her eyes again and propped herself up on her elbows to look at Sango. He was watching her with an uncharacteristic look of worry.

“Of what?” she said.

He looked away. “Oh, I don’t know. Ignore me.”

“Please tell me,” she said softly.

“Honestly, don’t worry about it.”

“Please.”

Sango set his net down and shuffled down the bank so he could look level with her. He sat with his elbows resting on his knees. “It probably won’t be necessary, but if you ever feel uncomfortable when you’re with him, just say you’ve got an engagement elsewhere. Tell him you’re meeting me.”

She turned her eyes downwards to continue making her wreath, well-practiced fingers looping the stems together. “If I’m shy, you mean?”

“I— if it’s that bad then yes, by all means, but what I really meant was… You know…” He sighed at her blank expression. “Never mind. You see, this is why I said to ignore me.”

“Well, you’ve started now, so you should finish.”

“I just meant that low-born Hobbits can be a bit… coarse.”

“With their language?”

“No. Actually, yes, but that’s not—” He groaned. “Please, just forget I said anything.”

“Well, that’s impossible.” She paused for a moment in silent contemplation, and then said, “Do you think he’s a cad?”

“I don’t know him well enough to make that judgement.”

“Really?” She glanced up at him. “How long has he worked at the farm for?”

Sango rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. “Well, we don’t take on any children under nine, and as far as I know his family have always worked for us. But there are so many of them they all get mixed up in my head.”

By now Tiger Lily had finished her wreath. Her petticoats dragged in the water as she went to place it on Sango’s head. “There.”

“Thank you.” It was slightly too big for him, and he had to push it up out of his eyes. “Do I look beautiful?”

“Very.” She grinned and sat down in the depression she’d left in the grass. “Why are you worried, if you don’t have any reason to doubt his character?”

He smiled blithely. “Because you’re young and innocent.”

Tiger Lily rested her jaw in her hand. “Now, what do you expect me to say to that? You’re only a year older than me, for a start.”

“I know, I know. But you don’t have any experience of lads, and he might have very different ideas about what going for fish and chips means than you do. You take my meaning?”

She swallowed. “I think so.”

The comment about her inexperience had shaken her, mostly because she knew it to be true. She was only aware of the facts of life through overhearing hushed conversations between married female relatives who had assumed she was too young to understand. Her mother had refused to provide further details, and she had instead spent too much time going through her family’s extensive collection of books until she’d found one on anatomy, which had proved helpful. She suspected it was something like this that Sango was hinting at. There was a sickly feeling she shouldn’t have made the offer to walk with Rob.

“Do you not count as a lad?” she said.

“Not in that sense.” He tugged at one of his braces that was threatening to slip off his shoulder.

“Would you rather I didn’t go?”

Sango gently kicked at the water and shrugged. “It’s not my choice.”

“Tell me what you think,” she said pleadingly.

“If I do you’ll just do whatever I tell you. You can be sensible, when you actually put the effort in.”

Tiger Lily hugged her knees, and looked at him with soft brown eyes. “I suppose I do need more friends. You and Opal will go off and get your own lives, and I’ll be left alone.”

“That won’t happen.”

“It already is,” Tiger Lily said. “Opal’s expecting Buffo to propose soon, and I might as well not exist when Lavender’s in the room.”

“That’s not true,” he said, his brow creasing.

“It is. Yesterday I waited for you when you went outside with her, but when you came back in you didn’t think to tell me all was well and I could go home. And you didn’t even notice that I snuck away at the harvest festival.” She took a breath. “I know why you forgot, I don’t blame you. That’s just how it is.” She rubbed her hands up and down her shins.

Sango scratched his head. “Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“Yes, but we can’t keep doing this forever.”

“Doing what?”

“This!” She threw her arms wide to take in the whole scene. “Running about the country together.”

He grinned and climbed back up the bank. “You just try and stop me.”

Tiger Lily watched him helplessly. “No, really, we can’t. One day you’ll have to take over at the farm permanently, and I’ll have children to look after. Though whether they’re mine or Bandobold’s is yet to be seen,” she said with a sigh. “But we’ve been walking together for so long I can’t really imagine life without it.”

Sango stood very still, staring at something in the grass. “Try not to think about it. That’s what I do.”

“I wish I could. How old were we when we were allowed to go off by ourselves?”

“Fifteen or sixteen, I think. Then there was the incident with the Three Farthing Stone, and it was a year until we were allowed another go at it.” He slowly reached for the net.

Tiger Lily herself had slipped into a reverie. It had occurred to her that her life hadn’t changed much in that time. She was only brought back to the stream when Sango suddenly brought his net down in the grass.

“Success!” he cried, grinning wildly. He spilt the contents of the net into the jar and splashed over to Tiger Lily. Inside the jar was a small brown frog, with smooth, speckled skin. Bright black eyes, like buttons, stared out at the world.

“It’s quite sweet, isn’t it?” she said.

Sango raised an eyebrow. “Frogs aren’t sweet, Tills.”

“What are they, then?”

“Slimy.” He held the jar up and lightly tapped on the glass. “I don’t know why I bother, really. I never know what to do with them once I actually catch one. Oh well. Off you go.” He opened the jar and let the frog crawl away over the long grass. He looked back at Tiger Lily. “Can you promise me that if he wants to be something other than friends, you can hold your own?”

Tiger Lily wanted to respond by laughing, but found it impossible. His eyes were sincere. “I didn’t talk to you like this when you set your sights on Lavender, and she’s low-born.”

“That’s not the same.”

“Why?”

He rubbed his hands nervously. “I don’t think I’m the person to tell you that.”

“Then who is?”

“Your mother maybe? Please stop asking questions, it’s making me anxious.”

Tiger Lily sighed. “Sorry. How are you feeling about seeing her father?”

He tried to smile. “Frightened. I hope he likes me.”

She also smiled, and did a better job. “Everyone likes you. You’re dear.”

“Not everyone. It depends how gladly they suffer fools.” He kicked at the water again.

“You’re not a fool,” she said quietly.

“That’s very loyal of you.” He tilted his head at the sound of approaching male voices somewhere on the road behind them.

Tiger Lily frantically tugged at her skirts, which she had allowed to ride up to her knees. As the pair of lads passed over the bridge, their conversation silenced when they became aware of the other two. She suddenly remembered the flowers in her hair and tore the flimsy wreath from her head, burning with embarrassment.

Sango nodded at them as they walked past. “Good afternoon.”

“Afternoon.”

Tiger Lily kept her eyes on the destroyed wreath as they walked past, but thought she could feel their eyes staring back at her as they continued down the road. She was reminded of her conversation the night before. “Do you know what Master Rob told me yesterday?”

“No.”

“He said everyone thinks you and I are sweethearts.”

“Oh, I knew that.” He made a grab at the water. “Almost had one there.”

“What?”

“I thought I might be able to get it, but it hopped away—”

“Not the frog, you idiot. You knew what everyone thought about us, and you didn’t say anything?”

“I assumed you knew as well,” he said. When he saw her face he grinned sheepishly and held his arms out. “Think of it as a nice surprise.”

Tiger Lily groaned and curled forward, hiding her face in her skirt. “That settles it. We need to stop walking together, this minute. Or at least, I need to start taking a chaperone.”

“Don’t be silly.”

She withdrew from the comfort of the sap-green cotton. “It’s not silly. I don’t want people talking about us like that.”

“It’s a bit late for that now.”

“Sango!”

“Tiger Lily.” He folded his arms and watched her, eyebrows raised. “It’s not as though it’s a damaging rumour. What harm is it doing our reputations?”

It took her a few seconds too long to think of a reply. “It’s doing harm to mine. How am I supposed to find a husband if everyone thinks we’re courting?”

He laughed at this. “Are you looking for a husband?”

She straightened her back and tried to sit like a proper lady, knees together. “Broadly speaking. In the same way every unmarried young lady is looking for a husband.”

He tutted. “Unmarried at twenty-seven, you old spinster.”

She refused to give in. “What must those lads have thought of us?”

“I didn’t know them. Did you?”

“That’s not the point. And you still had those flowers in your hair.”

“Oh, yes.” He touched the wreath and laughed. “I’d forgotten about that.”

She gaped at his ability to brush off his embarrassment so lightly, but continued with her case. “And you’re only half-dressed.”

“Now, that’s a bit strong.”

“You could at least wear a waistcoat.”

“It’s a new waistcoat, I didn’t want to get it wet. I think that’s fair enough.” He playfully kicked in Tiger Lily’s direction, showering her with droplets of muddy water.

She squealed, holding her arms up to shield herself. “Rowley! This is my best cotton!” she said, laughing and wiping her face. “And you got your waistcoat too, so you needn’t have taken it off in the first place.”

“Sorry,” he said, not looking it in the least. “What does my watch say? If it still works, that is.”

Tiger Lily followed the chain on Sango’s button hole to his right waistcoat pocket. She flicked the lid open. “Nearly six o’clock.”

“I should get back. I need to change before I visit the Hobbles.” The hems of his breeches were dark with water. Tiger Lily stood as he waded across the stream towards her, and handed him his waistcoat.

“I’ll go back too.”

He raised his eyebrows and pulled his waistcoat back on. “You don’t have to, you know.”

“It would be silly for me to sit out here on my own.”

“There’s nothing all that wrong with silly. I spend most of my life being silly,” he said, doing up his buttons.

“I know you do. You’re very good at it.” She grabbed her net and scrambled up the bank, where she started to walk down the dirt path back to Bywater.

“Wait for me!” he said, retrieving the jar and the other net before following her up. “Why do you always rush on ahead?”

She looked back at him, smiling wickedly. “It’s not my fault if you can’t keep up.”

“The cheek!” He joined her on the path. “One day you’ll run so far ahead I’ll lose you.”

It was only once they reached the village that they parted ways. Tiger Lily slipped through the door to the Took smial as quietly as a field mouse returning to her nest. Still she heard a voice call from the morning room, “Is that you, Tiger Lily?”

She flinched at the shrill tone. “Yes, Mother.”

Her mother walked out into the hallway to meet her. She was the very image of an upstanding lady of the house. Her dress was clean and pressed, white lace lining the hems. Gold sparkled on her neck, and her hands were neatly folded in front of her. Her eyes flicked across her daughter’s mud splattered skirt. “Oh, for goodness sake. What must people have thought, seeing you in this state?”

Tiger Lily rubbed her forearm. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

Her mother sighed as she watched her trying to jam the net into the umbrella stand. “I do wish you wouldn’t stray so far. I can’t keep you safe when you’re out there.”

“Safe from what?”

“Let’s not forget the Three Farthing Stone.”

“We were children,” Tiger Lily said desperately.

“You’re still a child now. And there are still nights you don’t come home.”

“That’s camping. It’s different.”

Her mother sniffed and looked away. “Why don’t you come through, and we can do some embroidery together?”

“I was actually going to—”

“Please?” her mother said.

Tiger Lily did her best to affect a smile. “Yes, Mother.”

Her steps brought her mechanically into the morning room. Her mother retrieved a square of muslin from her sewing box and handed it to Tiger Lily, along with an embroidery hoop. She fitted the cloth over the hoop easily, and stared at the blank circle of material.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said eventually, looking at her mother.

“Why don’t you do a nice bird?” she said. “Here, I’ll sketch out the design for you.” She set aside her own hoop and plucked Tiger Lily’s from her hands.

As she sketched away, Tiger Lily took a moment to look at her mother’s needlework: a myrtle tree in full bloom. From the size of the hoop she guessed it would become a cushion cover. Her own skills weren’t yet at a level where she was trusted with designing homeware.

“There we are,” her mother said, handing back the hoop. “A lovely little nuthatch.”

“Thank you,” Tiger Lily said, looking down at the sketch and trying to remember what the colouration of a nuthatch was. She selected a needle from the pin cushion and a dark brown thread. It seemed as good a colour to start with as any.

_Well_ , Tiger Lily thought with a sigh. _This is what your life will be once Rowley leaves. I’m sure you can find joy in it if you try hard enough. It will make Mother happy. You make her happy so little._

She started drawing her needle through the muslin, her brow creased in concentration. But she constantly found her eyes being drawn back to the clock, as it inevitably ticked down. Quarter-past seven. Half-past. Eight o’clock.

“This is nice,” Mrs Took said. This was the first thing either of them had said since they’d started. “Sisterly.”

“Yes…” She looked forlornly at her embroidery. She hadn’t gotten nearly as far she should have in the time. “Mother, what’s the difference between a well-born lad associating with a low-born lass and a well-born _lass_ associating with a low-born _lad_?”

“What do you want to know that for?” her mother said, frowning.

“Just something Sango and I were talking about earlier. He said to ask you.”

“Did he now?” She looked back down at the blossom she was stitching. “Associating how?”

“Just spending time together. Not necessarily courting, but not not-courting either.”

Her mother pursed her lips. “I’ll tell you when you’re married.”

Tiger Lily sighed. She didn’t like it when people didn’t answer her questions. How was she supposed to become less naïve if no one answered her questions? Then she smiled, and a mischievous glint appeared in her eyes. “So does that mean you could tell Opal when she’s married, and then she could—”

“Why don’t I send for some tea?” her mother said, ringing a bell that sat on an end table for that specific purpose.

A maid answered the ring. “Yes, Mrs Took?”

“Tea, please. Two cups.”

“Very good, madam.”

When the door closed again Tiger Lily said, “Please tell me, Mother.”

Her mother leaned over to look at Tiger Lily’s embroidery. “Your stitches are a little big there, dear. Perhaps you should focus on that.”

Tiger Lily returned her gaze to her wonky stitching, drawing her needle through the fabric. “Sorry.”

Her mother patted her knee by way of reply, and returned to her own embroidery.

The maid came back in a little later and set a full tray down on the tea table. Tiger Lily saw with it an opportunity to escape.

_Don’t you dare_ , she thought. “I’ll pour,” Tiger Lily said, lifting the teapot.

“Thank you, dear.”

_Please don’t_. _How are we supposed to be respectable if you won’t keep at it?_ She set her mother’s tea aside, and prepared the second cup. “Is Father in his study?” she said.

At this her mother rolled her eyes. “Need you ask?”

“I think I’ll take him this before dinner. He has two sugars, doesn’t he?”

“I can have a maid bring him tea,” her mother said. “Please stay.”

“I’ve made it now,” Tiger Lily said. “I don’t take sugar.”

Her mother gave up, and returned to her needlework with gusto. As Tiger Lily was leaving the room she could hear her muttering, “My mother told me not to marry a Took, she told me they were all mad, but would I listen…?”

Tiger Lily gripped the cup tightly, only three words going around in her head, and all of them directed at herself: _I hate you_.

She found the door to her father’s study shut. She knocked.

“Father? May I come in?”

His voice, muffled through the door, said, “Yes.”

There were two desks in Mr Took’s study, one for him and one for an assistant. Really, this should have been a clerk, but he never employed one, so more often it was taken by his brother who would help when he had fallen behind with his paperwork. The walls were lined with bookcases that reached to the ceiling. Some contained poetry, or were factual. Some were genealogical records. But most of them contained legends and folktales from all around the Shire.

For as long as Tiger Lily could remember, her father had been writing his _magnum opus_ : a record of all the legends of the Took family, organised by their first known recording, compared, scrutinised, and interpreted. It was only with great reluctance that he could be persuaded to sit down and pay attention to any clerical work that actually mattered; to check that the rents of his properties had been payed, and organise repairs for his tenants. The rest of his time, his mind was in the realm of the fantastical. At the moment both desks were covered with pillars of books, with pieces of paper scattered in the spaces between. This was much more of a wilderness than anything she had explored with Sango. The maids avoided tidying the study, with Mrs Took’s blessing.

The Hobbit himself was at this moment stood up, and staring out of the window, hands folded behind his back. “It’s getting dark earlier and earlier, isn’t it?” he said.

Tiger Lily smiled to herself in remembrance of her conversation with Sango the evening before. “Well, it is nearly October. I brought you some tea.”

“Thank you, that’s lovely. Just pop it on my desk, would you?”

Tiger Lily carefully shifted some dusty sheets on Mr Took’s desk to set down the cup and saucer. She glanced around the study.

Her father had a habit of losing his train of thought, and he always started on a fresh piece of paper while the new idea was still in his mind. But rather than filing away the piece he had been working on before, he would simply shuffle it into a different pile on the desk, promising himself he would find it again later. And then the whole process would start again when a new idea caught his fancy. Similarly, most of the books that were out now were not of immediate use to him, but rather than putting them away, he would just pile the more relevant books on top. Somewhere in all of this there were property deeds and letters.

“Would you like a hand with tidying? It’s a bit much in here, even for you.”

Mr Took looked at the piles of paper as though they’d only just appeared there. “I suppose it is a little untidy, now that you mention it.” He sat back down at his desk and picked up the teacup. “But surely Miss Tiger Lily has something better to do with her time?”

“No, not really.” She picked up some dust-covered books on the unoccupied desk.

“Oh dear.” He sipped his tea and smiled. “Has your swain abandoned you?”

Tiger Lily smiled to herself as she put the books up on a shelf. Her father had a custom of jokingly referring to Sango as her ‘swain’ or ‘beau’, or any other term that meant much the same thing. He did this because it had made her laugh when she was a child, rather than because he believed there was any truth in it.

“I’m afraid so. He’s found a worthier pursuit.”

“Surely not.”

She pushed the last book onto the shelf and leaned against the bookcase, her arms folded. “So I have decided to assist with an even worthier one.”

Mr Took chuckled. “Good girl.”

“Is there anything you don’t want me to move?”

He sipped his tea. “I suppose if I were to say ‘everything’ that would be the wrong answer?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, all right, then. Everything on that desk could go away, probably. We’ll worry about mine when we come to it. Just tie up the paper with this.” He fished a ball of string out of his desk drawer and threw it to her. “And I can put it away later.”

“But will you?”

“I’ll try.”

For a while they worked in silence, Mr Took scratching away with his quill, and Tiger Lily moving books from the desk to the gaps on the bookcases.

“What have you been up to today, then? Any little adventures?” he said.

She shrugged. “Just looking for frogs before they go to sleep for the winter. Not much of an adventure, really.”

“It’s more of an adventure than I’ve had today,” he said. “Or any day.”

“That’s not true, you’re always finding out new things. Have you read anything interesting today?” Tiger Lily said, and blew a thick layer of dust off of a book that had been out for a particularly long time.

“Oh, yes, see here.” He held a book up for her to see. “This is the earliest text I’ve found so far claiming that a Took married a fairy, but as you can see it uses the old Hobbitish word for any unknown spirit.”

Tiger Lily, who couldn’t read old Hobbitish, only smiled and said, “Really?”

“Yes!” Delighted, Mr Took pushed back through the pages. “And because they were discussing the sea only a short while before, I wonder if all this time they meant a mermaid wife, rather than a fairy. There are some problems with this, of course, and I can’t prove anything.”

“What problems?” she asked.

“Never you mind.”

Tiger Lily would have asked again in the hope of getting an answer, but her father carried on speaking, oblivious to her irritation.

“Anyway, if there ever was a legend about a mermaid, it’s been forgotten.” His eyes misted over. “You used to love stories about mermaids when you were little.”

Tiger Lily smiled. “I still do. But I know them all by heart now, there’s no point in hearing them again.” She tried to push a book into a gap on the shelf that was too small. “Maybe it was a demon wife,” she said absentmindedly.

_“What?”_ Tiger Lily was surprised to see her father had gone red in the face. “What made you say something so horrible?” he said.

“I didn’t mean it,” she said, trying to backtrack. “It’s just that I was speaking to someone the other day, and they believed Tooks met with demons.”

“Really?” Mr Took drew a fresh sheet of paper from a drawer. “I haven’t heard that before. Who was it?”

“It was one of Mr Boffin’s workers. I met them at the _Green Dragon_ yesterday.”

“Would you say they were an honest, hard-working, salt of the earth type?” her father said, not looking up from his writing.

“Umm…” Tiger Lily frowned, unsure of how to quantify salt-of-the-earth-ness. “She seemed nice. We didn’t speak much. It always makes me nervous when people talk about the Tooks like that.”

“You shouldn’t be ashamed,” he said, writing as fast as he could.

“I’m not ashamed. I’m just… I don’t know.” Tiger Lily bit her lower lip. “Actually, I have something to tell you, along those lines. I’m going to give up hunting.”

This brought Mr Took back into the room. “Oh! Goodness. Are you sure?”

“Yes.” She couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eye.

He laughed nervously. “Hortenbold told me this would come, as it did with Opal. I didn’t believe him, but then he was always the more sensible one.” He hesitated. “Do you mind if I ask… Why now?”

She stood with her back to the bookcase and kept her eyes fixed on the opposite wall. “I feel I’m tearing myself in pieces. I can’t keep living in-between, as both a respectable lady, and a Tookish hunter. I can’t talk to anyone because I’m too busy worrying about what they must think of me.”

“You’re just shy,” he said softly. “I’m shy. I’m not convinced that archery has anything to do with it.”

“But I do think giving it up would help. If they have no reason to think less of me, then I have no reason to fear them.” She spoke as though it was the simplest thing in the world.

Mr Took pushed a hand through his greying hair. “You must do what you think is best.” He leaned back in his chair. “I do wish we could have settled in Tookland, there are plenty of ladies who hunt there. But your mother wouldn’t have it, of course.”

“I’m glad we live here,” she said quietly.

“Good. But I’ll miss you, all the same.” He stared down at the space on the desk in front of him.

Tiger Lily walked up to him and tried to wrap her arms around him while he remained sat in the chair. “I’m sorry, Father.”

“No, no. None of that,” he said, prying her arms off his shoulders.

Tiger Lily stayed where she was for a moment, and kept her eyes on him as he returned to his writing. There were times she wondered if her father would have been happier if he hadn’t married. Not that he didn’t love his family, but that he would be just as happy without them there. He certainly didn’t mind his lack of friends. Eventually she went back to the spare desk, and started gathering up papers, checking first to see if they were Mr Took’s notes or documents that needed attention.

“What will you do with all the free time you’ve acquired?” he said.

“I’m not sure yet,” Tiger Lily said, glancing up at him. “I think I’ll just see what happens.”

* * *

The Hobbles’ house was right on Bywater Road, the better to attract business. A large room had been built onto the side of the house some generations ago, which ever since had been used as the workshop. Above the door to the workshop was a faded sign that read ‘Hobble and Son’. In newer letters someone had added, ‘and Daughters’ beneath. For the benefit of the illiterate, a small model of a wheel also hung above the door. The house itself was accessible via a different door, and it was this one that Sango had gone to.

The Hobbit that answered the door was a grey-haired old gaffer. There was a pipe in his hand. In a glance he took in Sango’s expensive clothes. “How can I help you, young sir?” he said.

Sango bowed, already flustered. “Sango Boffin, sir, at your service. I’m a friend of Lavender. I believe you’re expecting me?”

At hearing the name ‘Boffin’, Mr Hobble’s eyes had widened and he had stood up straight. Now, though, he looked puzzled. “What’s a gentlehobbit like you want with the likes of her? Sure you don’t mean t’other lass?”

“Oi! I heard that!” the voice of Lavender said from somewhere behind him. “Just let ‘im in, Dad.”

Mr Hobble stepped aside and let Sango in, bowing. The room was illuminated by the ample fire in the grate. “I’m sorry for the state of the place, sir. We don’t get many visits from Hobbits of your stature. Put the kettle on, Mrs Hobble.”

His wife was sat by on the single settee and only allowed herself the briefest of glances up at Sango before returning to her knitting. “Put the kettle on, Lavender.”

Lavender had been sat at the dining table playing cards with Nickon and Jack. She slapped her hand down. “But Mum, he’s _my_ guest.”

“Exactly. And I’m busy.”

“I’ll put it on,” said Primrose, who was in the middle of making dinner.

Sango was only a little unnerved by the interior of the house, and didn’t show what discomfort he did feel. He hadn’t much experience of being in the homes of working-class Hobbits. The main room of the house served as the parlour, kitchen and dining room all together, and everything was covered with a thin layer of wood dust. Still, this house had more comforts than the holes on East Warren Lane. There was a rug on the floor, and all the armchairs were in good condition, and had blankets thrown over their backs. The mantelpiece had a decorative plate propped up in the centre, flanked either side by brass candlesticks, polished fastidiously. A single dahlia flower stood in a vase at the centre of the table. All of this had been done consciously, to show the world that while the Hobbles may not be rich, they certainly weren’t poor. But compared to Sango’s own home, and those of his friends, ‘poor’ was the only word it that could properly describe it.

“Have a seat then, young master,” Mr Hobble said, indicating the nearest armchair.

Sango sat down, feeling out of place, while Mr Hobble took an armchair opposite, lord of all he surveyed. Lavender threw herself onto the settee beside her mother. She sat like a grumpy child, slumped back with her arms crossed.

“Let’s get this over with, then,” she said. “But you have to make them leave first.” She pointed to Nickon and Jack. The former was pretending not to stare at the newcomer, while the latter was shielding his face in the hope that he wouldn’t be recognised.

“It’s Nick’s house too, love,” Mrs Hobble said. “An’ if you can have your friend here then so can he.”

“But maybe… considering the quality of Lavender’s company…” Mr Hobble said hesitantly.

She turned her eyes up from her knitting to look at him. It was a look that made it clear that, while Mr Hobble may have been the Hobbit of the house, he was most definitely her Hobbit.

“Or I suppose they could stay,” Mr Hobble said weakly.

“So what can we do for you then, lad?” she said, turning to Sango. “We don’t get to see most of her ‘friends’.”

“Mum!” Lavender said, sitting up.

“I’m only telling the truth. I can’t remember the last time we actually got to meet one of your lads.” She shot Lavender a sharp look. “You’re not in the family way, are you?”

“No!”

Sango swallowed. He was out of his depth. “I’ve actually come to ask for permission to court Lavender.”

Mrs Hobble half-smiled and raised an eyebrow. “What, really?”

“Yes?”

“If you say so,” she said, returning to her knitting. “But I don’t think you quite know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“Hush, Heather,” Mr Hobble said.

“Don’t you tell me to hush,” she said, setting her knitting on her lap.

Mr Hobble winced. “Please, not in front of—”

“And put that bloody pipe out like I asked.”

He slowly went to empty his pipe into the fireplace. The only visible expression he wore was embarrassment. When he sat down again, he put on a smile. “It’s thoughtful of you, master. To ask me for my blessing.”

Sango smiled nervously. “I just wanted to assure you that my intentions towards Lavender are completely honourable.”

There was a snort from Nickon. Lavender turned on the settee to look at him. “Shut it, you! Mum, tell him!”

“I ain’t getting involved,” she said, not looking up.

Sango moved forward in his seat. “Should I come back on a different day?”

“No need for that.” Mr Hobble walked to Sango and shook his hand. “Of course you can have my blessing to court our Lavender. Couldn’t be happier, fine lad like you.”

Sango’s shoulders sagged as his nerves melted away. “Thank you, sir.”

Mr Hobble let go of his hand and returned to his seat, swelling with pride.

“You staying for dinner, sir?” Primrose called from the pot over the fire.

“I wouldn’t want to intrude,” Sango said.

Mrs Hobble laid her knitting aside in a basket by her feet. “Ain’t no intrusion. We’ll just lay out an extra bowl. You’re too thin, it ain’t right for a Hobbit.” She went to a cabinet and brought out a stack of bowls, as if to prove a point. She looked at Nickon and Jack. “Shift, lads.”

Nickon rose, eyeing Sango like a fox in a henhouse. “If you insist, Mother.”

But Jack hung back, and went to get some earthenware cups out of the cupboard. “I’ll help you, Mrs Hobble.”

Nickon grinned and whispered, “Don’t you want to meet Master Boffin?”

Jack grimaced and stuck his tongue out at Nickon from across the room. If Sango was aware of this exchange he didn’t show it, and was instead listening to Mr Hobble with the politest possible expression on his face.

“I don’t like all this talk of having a working Hobbit run for mayor. As far as I’m concerned, it’s the old families that have always run for mayor, and that’s the proper way of things. Don’t you agree?”

Sango had never given this an ounce of thought in his life, and smiled as best he could. “Well, I suppose so. I don’t know. Perhaps.”

“It’s not as if the mayor actually does anything,” Lavender said.

“That ain’t the point, my girl,” Mr Hobble said. “It’s the principle of the thing.”

“But what for?”

“You walking out with our Lavender, then?” Nickon said, plopping himself down where Mrs Hobble had been sat.

“I suppose so… sir.” Nickon wasn’t too much older than Sango, but years of woodwork had built him up in a way Sango considered unachievable.

Nickon snickered. “Ain’t no need to call me that.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“So how many lads are you sharing her with?”

“Nick!” Lavender cried, leaping up and grabbing at his shoulders.

Nick only laughed, and pushed her back, pinning her down with a foot. He smiled amiably at Sango. “Savage thing, ain’t she?”

Lavender gave a shriek, and leaped at Nickon, trying to land a series of hits to his chest. He just kept on laughing, easily pushing her hands away.

“Stop it, Lavender!” their father said, getting to his feet. His face was bright red. “Act like a lady for once.”

“Dinner’s on the table,” Primrose said.

“Thank’ee,” Nick said, giving Lavender a playful shove back, and making his escape over the arm of the settee.

Lavender sighed, and got to her feet as daintily as she could. “Sorry about that,” she said, and attempted to tidy her hair, which she had put in a complicated braid that looped her head.

“Quite all right,” Sango said, though his feathers were still rather ruffled. “You should see me and my brother when we argue.”

“And I’ve never had more than one lad at once. I ask my lads not to stray from me, and I pay them the same courtesy. It’s only polite.”

“That’s nice,” he said.

It was only when they sat down at the table that Sango finally noticed Jack. “Oh, it’s you…” His mind flooded with possible names. “Jonson.”

“Jack,” he said with the voice of one used to this sort of thing.

Dinner passed cordially enough. Mr Hobble talked constantly, which Jack was grateful for, and Sango less so. He was grateful for the beef stew, though. Being Hobbits, the family had made more than was necessary to feed the family of five, and even divided amongst seven it made a good meal. And unlike the Delvers, the Hobbles could afford to have meet more than once a week. It was when Sango excused himself for the privy that Mr Hobble leaned over to speak to his eldest daughter.

“You’ve done well there, my girl. By all means marry him afore he realises the kind of lass you really are.”

Lavender rolled her eyes. “I ain’t marrying him, Dad.”

“And I’m glad you’ve stopped throwing yourself at paupers,” Mr Hobble said. He remembered Jack’s presence and added, “Present company excepted.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jack said dryly.

“We’re paupers too, Dad,” Lavender said.

Mr Hobble brought a hand down on the table. “We’re _artisans_.”

“It’s all the same thing.”

Her father turned red in the face. “I am your lord and father—”

“Ha!”

He huffed. “And you wonder why Primrose is my favourite.”

“Hello,” Sango chimed, re-entering the parlour. “I was wondering if we could perhaps take a walk, Lavender? There’s still some Jumping Jack blooming by the Water, and it smells lovely. Only if that’s all right with you, sir,” he said, bowing his head to Mr Hobble.

“Aye, take her,” Mr Hobble said, feeling defeated. “Mayhap you’ll make something good of her.”

But Lavender had already risen to her feet and was dragging Sango towards the door. “See you lot later,” she said.

Sango just managed to call, “It was lovely meeting you all,” before Lavender closed the door firmly behind them.

“They’re so embarrassing,” she said.

“I’m glad he liked me,” Sango said.

“He liked you soon as he heard the name ‘Boffin’. Dad loves all the old families,” Lavender said bitterly. She saw Sango’s disappointed expression, and smiled lovingly. “But Mum ain’t so easy to impress, and she seemed to like you all right.”

“She barely looked at me.”

“If she didn’t like you you’d know by now,” Lavender said. She wasn’t looking at Sango when she said this. She was looking at Meg, who she had only just seen hovering at the corner of the house. She was staring back at Lavender with questioning eyes. “Oh! I said I’d meet you, din’t I?” Lavender said, pressing a hand to her forehead.

“Oh, it’s all right,” Meg said, trying to smile. “I can come back on a different day.” But her expression was desperate.

Sango turned around. “Gosh! Hello—” He hesitated. “Nutmeg?”

“That’s right, sir.” She sighed. “I don’t want to interrupt anything, Lav. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“No!” Lavender said, hurrying to Meg and grabbing her arm. “I ain’t turning you away when you’ve asked for help. You don’t mind waiting a bit do you, Sango?”

“Oh, no. I could hardly call myself a gentlehobbit if I put my needs before those of a lady,” Sango said, doing his best to hide is disappointment.

“How long will it take do you think?” Lavender said.

“Don’t know.” Meg’s face was flushing, and her shoulders were hunched. She hadn’t planned to see Sango there.

“You want to come inside?” Lavender said gently, taking her wrist and leading her towards the door.

“Who else is there?” Meg said.

This took Lavender by surprise. “Well, just Mum and Dad, Nick, Rose and your Jack.”

Meg withdrew her hand and gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head.

“Right.” She took Meg’s wrist again and instead started to lead her around the corner of the house. She glanced over her shoulder at Sango and smiled. “Won’t be a minute.”

“Take your time.” he said.

Sango stood at the front of the house and wrapped his jacket around him, as if this could protect him from the encroaching darkness. He hated the feeling of restriction on his arms, but meeting Lavender’s father seemed too important for him to be without a jacket. He didn’t know what to do with himself and ended up strolling up and down in front of the house while he waited. And waited. He couldn’t hear what they were talking about, but he did manage a glimpse at them while he was pacing. They were talking urgently, in hushed voices. Their faces were drawn.

Eventually Lavender appeared from around the corner, smiling. “You all right? Sorry for leaving you so long.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” he said as brightly as he could manage.

“Something’s happened. I don’t think we can go out today. I’m really sorry.” This was the first time he’d seen Lavender uncertain about anything. It felt like a contradiction in terms.

“I don’t mind, really.”

She smiled and approached him to plant a kiss on his cheek. “You are a lovely lad. I promise we’ll go out somewhere tomorrow.”

“I’ll count the minutes,” he called after her as she returned to Meg. She only smiled at him.

Sango stood still for a moment, uncertain of what to do next. Then he turned about, to go where he always went when he wasn’t sure where to go.

* * *

Tiger Lily had retired to her room, though really it was too early for that. She had already changed into a nightgown, and her frizzy brown hair fell loosely around her shoulders, free of the ribbons and hair pins that usually kept it in line. She was sat on her bed, attempting to sketch the room around her. At the moment her main frustration was that nothing on the paper seemed at all solid, and despite repeatedly starting again, she’d found no way to rectify it. It didn’t help that her only light was a single candle on her bedside table.

Her eyes fell upon her unstrung longbow, which leaned against the wardrobe. It was in the bottom of the wardrobe where she kept her arrows, and her repair kit. That arrow still had a fletching missing…

Tiger Lily returned to her drawing, throwing aside her last failed sketch and setting her pencil on a new piece of paper. She drew the window on the west wall of her room, the window seat directly beneath it and the writing desk in the corner. Then there was the dressing table, covered in ribbons. She kept a shawl draped over the mirror as a permanent fixture, a habit accepted by the household as another Tookish eccentricity. Her bookshelf was only half taken up with books (mostly fairy tales) with the other half being filled with old toys. There was a neat line of china dolls along the top shelf, and the one below was littered with wooden animals, neatly painted.

The entire room was covered with lace. Endless lace. On the curtains, the bed linen, the cushions on the window seat, even on the dresses of the dolls.

She started to sketch the wardrobe, and only then realised everything was leaning slightly to the right. She lay back on the pillows and groaned. Once again she found herself thinking about the arrow.

Sod it.

She scrambled out of bed and opened the wardrobe. She pulled out her quiver, and the little wooden box that contained arrowheads, feathers, and the ingredients to make the glue to stick them on with. She would need to go to the kitchens to heat and mix it.

_This isn’t so I can go hunting again_ , she told herself. _It’s for a sense of completeness._

A knock at the window made her jump and set her heart thumping.

“Tills!” Sango’s voice called from outside.

“One moment,” she called, hastily putting everything back in the wardrobe. She grabbed the shawl that hung over the mirror and flung it around her shoulders for decency’s sake. A moment later she was carefully carrying the candle over to the window. She drew the curtains back one-handedly, and set the candle on the windowsill. “You know I don’t mind when you do this,” she said when she had opened the window, “but could you please call my name before you knock? You gave me such a fright.”

“Sorry.” Sango folded his arms and leaned on the window ledge. “I went the front way first, but they said you’d retired for the evening.”

Tiger Lily wrapped the shawl closer around her as protection against the chill that came in with the night, and knelt on the window seat. “What are you doing here, anyway? Weren’t you supposed to be with Lavender?”

“I was, but she had other things to attend to,” he said, a ray of dejection piercing his usually cheery countenance. “So I thought I’d drop in on you on my way home.”

“It must be bad if you’ve come to me.”

He didn’t react to this, and instead picked at the grass that grew up the outside wall. “Do you think she’s bored of me?”

“You’ve only been courting two days.”

He shrugged. “I know, but I sometimes get bored of books when I’m only two pages in. Maybe she does too.”

Tiger Lily massaged her earlobe, wondering how to phrase her response. “Well, I don’t think… I mean, she probably can’t read, Rowley.”

“Oh, yes. Sorry, I was being silly.” He shook his head as though this would expel the silliness.

She sighed. “And I think you’d get on better with reading if you wore your spectacles like you’re supposed to.”

Sango groaned and leaned his head against the window frame. “I hate how they make me look. And how many romantic heroes are constantly having to fumble with their spectacles? I don’t imagine Lavender would be impressed.”

“I don’t think this is good,” Tiger Lily said, deciding to leave the matter of the spectacles for another day. “If you’re having doubts so soon.”

“Alternatively, it can only get better from here,” Sango said. “What’s the fun in love if it’s all straight-forward?”

“I suppose so. You’d know better than me, of course.” She fiddled with the bare vines that framed the window. Wisteria grew there in the spring. “Did you get her father’s permission?”

“I did. So this evening wasn’t a total waste.”

She smiled. “Good. He wasn’t too harsh was he?”

“Oh, he was a little harsh, but I eventually managed to win him over with my boundless wit and good taste,” Sango said, grinning.

Tiger Lily giggled. “Really?”

“Of course. Lying is wicked,” Sango said, and stepped back away from the window. “I think I might go home. I don’t want your father shooting me for trespassing.”

Tiger Lily folded her arms. “You always say that. It’s still not funny.”

“I think it is,” he said. He stood up straight and clicked his fingers. “That reminds me, we’ve got rabbits in the bank on the southern-most field, and Father wondered if you Tooks would like to deal with them for us. You’d get to keep them, of course. I meant to ask earlier.”

“I’ll tell Father. I imagine he’ll oblige.”

“Lovely.” He wondered away across the lawn at a steady gait.

“You had better go faster than that, or I’ll shoot you myself,” she said.

“Ah, but you don’t shoot anymore,” he called from across the lawn. “I’ll see you soon, Tills.”

Tiger Lily watched him go while she closed the window. He always climbed over the fence in exactly the same place. She wondered if he ever got bored. He waved to her before walking off, his usual soppy grin on his face. She waved back, smiling in her own slightly apologetic way. She picked the candleholder back up and drew the curtains. Once again she was in her own little world of lace and feathers. She replaced the shawl over the mirror, not daring to make eye-contact with herself. The doors of the wardrobe were still standing open. She walked to it, and looked down at the box. Slowly, she closed the doors of the wardrobe.


	7. The Company of Fools

The Delver sisters had prepared for bed long ago, but were still sat chatting on Maizey’s bed, as they did most nights. But tonight was different. Every so often they would lapse into a twitchy silence, and they took turns glancing at the door. Meg wasn’t home yet. She’d gone out after dinner, as most of the Delvers did, their hole not being big enough for everyone to comfortably spend the afternoon at home, but Meg was usually home in good time. The only exception to this was on a Friday, when she would take advantage of the half-day to go to an inn. Today was Sunday, though, and there was still no sign of her.

“Should we tell Mum and Dad?” Myrtle said, echoing the thoughts of her older sisters.

“Not yet,” Clover said. “She’ll be home soon. Ain’t no point worrying ‘em.” Secretly, she wanted to tell them, but she felt like waiting was what Meg would do, and there was nothing specifically to be worried about.

“How’d you know she’ll be home soon?” Poppy said.

Clover shrugged. “She’s always come home before.”

“It only takes once,” Poppy said darkly.

Myrtle’s eyes widened and she looked from Maizey to Clover for reassurance. The former glared at Poppy. “I really hate you sometimes.”

Poppy sniffed and looked away. “Well at least I ain’t a hoyden.”

“Least I ain’t an uppity little madam.”

“Stop.” Clover had buried her head in her hands.

“I think she’s gone to Winden’s house,” Poppy said. “I heard she went there the other day, after they’d ended it.”

“Why?” Myrtle said.

“To beg him to take her back, of course.”

“Nah. She’d’ve gone to give him a piece of her mind,” Maizey said.

“Be quiet!” Clover said. “More like as not, she din’t go there at all.” _I wish Meg was here_ , she thought.

It was then that they heard the door open, and all turned to see Meg stood in the doorway. Clover’s shoulders sagged with relief, though she’d never admit she’d actually been worried.

“Can’t last five minutes without me, can you?” Meg said, slightly unnerved by her audience. “Thought you’d be abed by now”

Maizey leaned back on her elbows. “We was just wondering where you got to.”

Meg walked to the chest of drawers and pulled out a nightgown. “Just, you know… pottering.”

Clover watched her sister intently. She noted the slightly stiff way she was walking, and the glistening layer of sweat on her face. “You all right?” she said.

“I’m fine,” Meg said, taking the nightdress to the far end of the room to change beside her and Clover’s bed. Her voice had a breathless quality to it. “Never better.” She reached out to lean on the bedstead as she walked past.

“Good to see you home, though,” Maizey said. “Me and Poppy would’ve had it out, it you han’t come in when you did.”

“Can’t be having that…” Meg said while she undid the laces of her bodice. Her usually nimble fingers fumbled with the knot.

Clover chewed her nails, and stared. By this time the other three had also noticed Meg’s discomfort and joined Clover in watching their eldest sister.

“Are you sure you’re—” Myrtle began. She received her answer when Meg suddenly doubled over, a hand pressed over her mouth.

Maizey was the first to react. She dove beneath the bed for the chamber pot and was by Meg’s side a moment later. She held Meg’s hair back as she retched into the pot while Poppy and Myrtle fled from the room. Clover remained where she was sat, frozen in uncertainty.

Maizey was speaking to Meg in soft tones. “All right, lass. All right.” She glared up at Clover. “Some good you are.”

Clover snapped back into the present, and climbed off the bed. “What do you want me to do?”

“Help me with ‘er laces.”

Meg had stopped retching now, but was clutching at Maizey’s arms, her face contorted with pain. Clover tried to undo the laces, but it was difficult with Maizey in the way. Mrs Delver rushed into the room, the younger sisters shadowing her. She placed a hand on Meg’s back. “Think you’ll be sick again?”

Meg shook her head, her hair falling about her face.

“Come on, then. To bed with you,” Mrs Delver said, quickly undoing the laces and pulling the bodice over her arms. She helped her off with her skirt, so that Meg was wearing only her shift when she was gently but firmly pushed into bed.

Meg sat down heavily and fell onto her side without protest. As Mrs Delver covered her with the quilt, she mumbled the word, “Sorry,” half into the pillow.

“You can’t help there’s a flu going round,” Mrs Delver said. “Poppy, I think there’s some water left in the jug in the kitchen.”

As she left the room Mrs Delver pressed a hand to the invalid’s damp forehead. Her brow creased. “No fever. When’d this come on?”

“Little while ago. I stayed at Lavender’s ‘cus I thought it’d pass.”

“Been drinking?”

“A little.” Meg turned her face to the pillow again and gritted her teeth.

Mrs Delver pulled the quilt back. “Show me where it hurts.”

Meg curled an arm across her stomach, but didn’t even attempt to speak.

Mrs Delver folded her arms. “I know Heather Hobble’s not the best cook, but I never seen her food do this to a person.” Poppy re-entered with a cup of water, which Mrs Delver helped Meg to sip from. “I know you’re not one to be coddled, but if it gets worse you need to let Clover or someone know.”

Med nodded.

Mrs Delver smiled grimly and lightly touched her hair. “Good lass.” She glanced up at Clover. “You’d best share with Maizey tonight, but I probably din’t need to tell you that. You come and get me if you’re not sure on something.”

After disposing of the contents of the chamber pot, Mrs Delver returned to her room, where Mr Delver was waiting, half-asleep.

“Lass all right?” he said.

Mrs Delver climbed into bed beside him. “Will be, hopefully. Too early to tell. Goodness knows what’s wrong with ‘er.”

Mr Delver groaned. “That’s a day’s pay gone. And if we need to send for a doctor on top—”

“Your daughter’s lying ill and all you can think of is our coffers,” Mrs Delver said, lying back and pulling their quilt over her.

He rolled over to face her. “I have to. They’re near empty.”

“We’ve always been all right in the past.”

“I know. But the next disaster’ll be the end of us.”

Mrs Delver lay on her back with her eyes closed. “That won’t happen.”

“How’d you know?”

“I must. Don’t know what I’d do otherwise.”

Mr Delver said nothing, but wrapped an arm around Mrs Delver’s waist and pulled her closer to him. She opened her eyes and turned her head to look at him, wrapping his greying curls around her fingers. Eventually they fell asleep as they were.

All of the Delver lasses had a troubled night. Meg was sick again, and got up for the privy more than once. Clover had to help her walk, and her repeated insistence that Meg could and should use the chamber pot where pointedly ignored. She was too ill to go to work the next day, or the day after that. By the Wednesday she was well enough to get out of bed and help around the house, but still too weak for work at the farm. It was on that day that the rain came, and the Delvers all came home with sodden clothes and mud-caked feet. There was an initial rush to change into dry clothes, during which Meg was relegated to the parlour to keep her out of the way. This was followed by the usual rush to the dinner table.

Like the previous two days, the first thing Clover did after finishing the washing up was to see Meg, who relished the company. She had been banned from eating at the table with the rest of the family, and Mrs Delver had discouraged the other Delvers from seeing her too much, partly to prevent her sickness spreading if it was infectious, and partly out of a fear of overwhelming the invalid. Meg disputed this second point, but was overruled. She found Meg had returned to the lasses’ room, where she was trying to get through a pile of clothes that needed mending. She smiled at Clover. “How are you, little’un?”

“Could be better,” she said, wringing out her waist-length hair. “Han’t seen rain like this in a long time. The Elder King must be punishing us for our wickedness.”

Meg smiled. “Being ill has its advantages.”

“It’s almost as if you planned it,” Clover said, searching the top of the dresser for hairpins, “and now I expect all of us’ll get colds, and you’ll be the only well one.” She glanced at Meg, who was sewing up a torn shirt seam in a way that Clover could only describe as aggressive. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No, of course not.” Meg looked back at her, and though her face was bright there was no joy behind it.

Clover tried to read more into the expression. If there was no true joy, then what was there? She found nothing. Meg returned to her sewing, keeping her eyes on her work while Clover started pulling her ashy brown hair up into a bun. She didn’t look up again until Clover was almost finished. “You want a hand there?” Meg said.

“No, thank you. Does it look all right?” Clover said, looking into the hand mirror and turning her head from side to side to try and get a good look.

“It’s all loose at the back.”

Clover swore and removed the hairpins and ribbons, allowing the damp locks to tumble down her back. Meg smiled to herself. “Here.” She stood behind Clover and tied her hair back with one of the discarded ribbons. “You may be near thirty, but that don’t mean you’ve outgrown your old sister.” When Clover made no reply she continued. “What’s this for anyway? Headed somewhere nice?”

“Just meeting a lad,” Clover said.

“Ooh,” Meg said, twisting the ponytail into a neat little bun, careful not to pull too hard. “Do I know ‘im?”

“You’ll get to meet ‘im if he’s up to scratch.”

Meg laughed as she tied another ribbon around her handiwork. “Good on you.”

Clover closed her eyes and cursed herself internally. “How’re you feeling today?”

The hairpins were slid into place, firming up the bun and tucking the loose strands away. “Well enough. I might be able to go back to work tomorrow.” Meg returned to her seat on the bed and the pile of sewing.

“Think so?”

“Hope so. It’s too quiet here with only me, Mum and Myrtle. I like chaos.”

“I know you do, strange thing.” Clover sat on the bed opposite. “Is there anything I can get you?”

“Only gossip.” She drew the shirt back into her lap. “What’s happening with the mill?”

Clover scratched the back of her head, being careful not to mess up her hair. “Not sure. No one’s been too keen to gossip in the rain. Martin and the twins wanted to walk up and have a look but Dad won’t let ‘em ‘til the weather clears up.”

The day before news had arrived that Sandyman’s Mill in Hobbiton was being taken apart. So far the only things to have been removed were the inner workings, which now lay uselessly on the grass around the mill. The reason for this was not yet clear.

“Wonder why old Sandyman’s doing it,” Clover said. “Maybe he died,” she added in a cheerful voice.

Meg gave her a disapproving look. “At least don’t sound so happy about it.”

“You don’t like ‘im either.”

“That don’t mean I hold with celebrating ‘is death.”

Clover grinned cruelly. “Or maybe I’m just more honest than you.”

Meg turned her eyes up. “What’re you still doing ‘ere? Off with you. Best not leave your lad waiting.”

Clover rose to her feet, giving Meg’s shoulder a squeeze. “Thanks for doing my hair.”

“Ain’t no trouble.”

“Mind if I borrow your cloak? Mine’ll still be wet.”

“Course you can.”

“Thank you.”

When Clover reached the door Meg called, “If he don’t act like a gentlehobbit you just send him to me and I’ll give him a hiding.”

Clover smiled. “Even I’m not cruel enough for that. Have a nice evening.” She dug her nails into her forearm as she walked down the corridor. She took Meg’s untouched cloak from the stand and threw it about her shoulders. It would only provide the minimum protection against the rain, but it would have to do. Jack and Rob could be heard playing with the younger ones in the parlour. She considered asking to borrow one of their jackets as well, but dismissed the idea. She didn’t want to spread her lie any further, and wearing a lad’s jacket would be more unseemly than turning up soaking wet.

The door to the parlour opened, flooding the corridor with the noise of playing children. Clover winced. Rob sheepishly put his head around the door. “Meg all right?”

“You can go and ask ‘er if you like,” Clover said as she tied the cloak’s ribbons.

He stepped into the corridor proper and rubbed the back of his neck. “Don’t like going in the lasses’ room.”

She half-smiled. “I don’t like going in the lads’ room either. Nasty smell. Reckon she’ll appreciate the company, though.”

“Where you headed?”

“Nowhere.”

“That ain’t true.”

What little patience Clover had ran out. “What is it with you lot? Can’t I have my own affairs?” She stepped out into the rain, slamming the door behind her.

Rob hadn’t expected this, but long used to Clover’s changeable nature he didn’t react beyond a flicker of puzzlement in the eyes. Then he turned about, and lumbered off towards the lasses’ room.

* * *

Clover was admitted to the Grubb’s smial by Petunia, who relieved her of her cloak and ushered her to a door deep within the bank. There was already another lass waiting to be seen, and Clover was left to stand beside her and wait. It was with venom that she noticed her rival’s hair and face were much drier than her own. She remembered the dripping umbrellas by the coat stand. _One day I’ll own an umbrella,_ she thought bitterly.

The only noise that rose above the muffled conversation from within was the sound of a ticking clock that came from somewhere in the dimly lit corridor. It was only after several minutes that Clover realised she’d been scratching her nails into her palm to the rhythm. She stopped herself as soon as she noticed. It was such a small thing, but the realisation that she had done something—anything—absentmindedly perturbed her.

Clover sought for ways to occupy her mind. She cast an aside glance at the lass stood next to her. She was nervous, but that was to be expected. The source of her anxiety was harder to pin down with so little to go on, but her breathing pattern and the lax way her hands fiddled with the lining of her sleeve suggested a place of fragility. Clover’s own fidgeting was tight, and what nerves she had came from the same hard, compact place she stored most of her mental energy, theoretically for use at a later date. She spent most of her life in approximately the same state as a wound up spring. Eventually she gave up on trying to analyse her rival, writing her off as a damp squib.

It wasn’t too long after that the door opened and a third lass left the drawing room, head held high, a young gentlehobbit followed closely behind. “I’ll be back in a moment,” he said, before disappearing with the lass down the corridor. Clover watched them go, completely fascinated. He returned on his own, walking leisurely, and looked with indifference at Clover’s nervous rival. “Come in,” he said, opening the door, “and don’t look so frightened.”

They disappeared into the room, and Clover drank in the rare moment of solitude.

At a little more than four foot, Dalgo was exceptionally tall for a Hobbit of the Third Age. He was also much thinner than a Hobbit should be, making him seem taller still. But what fascinated Clover was the way he carried himself: his hands folded neatly behind his back, which he kept as straight as possible, as though he thought himself not quite tall enough.

Then there was the indelible look of disdain on his face and the imperious tone with which he spoke. To Clover this suggested prudishness and, most of all, arrogance. Arrogance as far as the eye could see. He’s used to looking down on people, she thought. Mostly figuratively. He considers himself the cleverest person in the room, regardless of the company he keeps. She recognised some of the symptoms of this from her own behaviour. But his body language was loose. He was a lad born into a good family and had never had to fight for anything in his life, which had made him lazy. It was only natural that people should look up to him, so there wasn’t any point in him ever actually trying.

Clover smiled. The best thing about people who had sat themselves up on a pedestal was surprising them by climbing up to meet them. Or knocking them down to meet you. Whichever was more fun.

It didn’t seem that much time had passed when other lass emerged, Dalgo once again showing her to the door. He returned on his own a moment later, and looked at her over the top of his spectacles. “Are you the last?”

This took her by surprise. She looked down the empty corridor. “Yes.”

“Come along, then,” he said, opening the door.

It was only now that she became aware of how ridiculous the height difference between them was. Clover was the shortest of her full-grown siblings, and the top of her head didn’t quite reach Dalgo’s elbow. She rallied, though, standing as straight as she could as she walked past him.

The room she walked into was a study that contained a single desk, behind which was sat Mrs Grubb. She was quickly joined by Dalgo, who sat with one lengthy leg crossed over the other. An elderly gammer with beady eyes was parked in a wheelchair to their right.

“You were… Miss Delver, weren’t you?” Young Mrs Grubb said, examining a sheet of paper in front of her.

“Yes, madam,” Clover said. It was too warm in this room. She could feel her clothes getting damp, and not just from her dripping hair.

“Well, I’m Mrs Grubb. This lady is my mother-in-law, Mrs Grubb, and this is my eldest son, Mr Grubb.” The lad gave her a slight nod of the head in recognition, but his expression remained unamused. Young Mrs Grubb smiled. “I apologise if it becomes confusing.”

“It won’t, madam.”

“Glad to hear it,” Young Mrs Grubb squinting at Clover over through the thick lenses of her spectacles. “You look awfully young. How old are you, exactly?”

Clover only took a moment’s hesitation to say, “Thirty-three.”

“Good.” Young Mrs Grubb added a quick note to her paper and smiled up at her. “I also apologise if this is all a bit formal, but I wouldn’t like to let someone into my household without a proper talk with them first.”

So, this was a live-in position. Clover succeeded in masking her surge of excitement at this news. “No, madam.”

“So, have you worked as a maid before?” Young Mrs Grubb said.

“No, madam, but I help my mother with the cleaning. And cooking on a Friday.”

“We shan’t be needing you to cook most days,” Young Mrs Grubb said. “I like to keep my own table, if I can.”

“As is proper for a Hobbit.”

Young Mrs Grubb half-smiled, and looked down at her notes. “I’ve always thought so.”

“I wonder,” Dalgo said, pushing his spectacles up his nose by the bridge, “if domestic work within the family home could really be considered an adequate replacement for experience within a paid position of domestic servitude.”

Old Mrs Grubb cackled. “And to think there was a time when all he could say was, ‘horsey, horsey’.”

It took all of Clover’s fortitude to prevent herself smiling as Dalgo squirmed.

The long words, though… No one used long words like that. Not really. Why bother using those words when shorter ones would do just as well, and you know they would do just as well, especially when you’re talking to a working-hobbit who you have no need to impress? Because you need everyone else to know you’re the cleverest person in the room. Because knowing it yourself isn’t enough. You need other people to tell you so again, and again, and again. What’s the point of being clever if not everyone knows? So you end up trying too hard, cultivating your own special breed of idiocy.

Clover smiled to herself as she watched Dalgo. _You really have no idea what you’re doing, do you? I’ve got you down, mister._

He must have seen something in her expression he disliked because he scowled at her and said, “You still haven’t answered, Miss Delver. Would you prefer it if I rephrased the question?”

“No, sir.”

“Well then?” He regarded her with a needle-sharp gaze.

She raised her head proudly, and did her best to match him with her own stare. “I wouldn’t know, sir. But I’m one of twelve children, so I reckon caring for your family won’t be too burdensome.”

He seemed surprised by the confidence with which she spoke, and shifted in his seat. “How do you know there aren’t ten more of us?” he said.

“Dalgo!” his mother said, her mouth opening in appalled shock.

“Rich or not, I don’t think any family that large could have a home as neat as this,” she said, thinking back to the immaculately kept hallway. She watched Dalgo from the corner of her eye. She recognised his voice as one of the ones that had been arguing when she had first come to inquire about the job. “Or quiet.”

Dalgo raised his eyebrows, just enough for her to notice. “Indeed.”

“I think we’ve gone a little off-topic,” Young Mrs Grubb said, and glared at her son. “So what can you actually do, housework-wise?”

Clover shrugged. “Most things. Scrubbing, sweeping, dusting, polishing, making fires, washing…”

“Pressing?”

She hesitated. “No. But I can pick things up quick.”

“Yes.” Young Mrs Grubb made another note. “You’re aware that as part of this role you’re expected to care for the other Mrs Grubb?”

“Yes,” Clover lied.

“Have you looked after an older Hobbit before now?”

“I cared for my grandmother towards the end ‘f her days,” Clover said. She swallowed when she realised her error. “Not that I’m saying—”

Young Mrs Grubb waved her into silence. “I knew what you meant. Is that all?”

She gripped her skirt as panic set in. “I help care for my little brothers and sisters,” she said, unable to think of anything else to say.

“Mmm…” Young Mrs Grubb didn’t look up from her notes.

“I know it ain’t the same,” she continued, doing her best to keep her voice level, “but the young and the old’re similar in some ways.”

Young Mrs Grubb turned her eyes up to meet Clover’s. “How so?”

Clover realised her second mistake. _You bloody idiot_ , she thought. “I don’t know. I just couldn’t think of nothin’ else to say.”

“Really?” Old Mrs Grubb said. She leaned forward in her chair, a mean expression on her face. “Why did you say it, then?”

Clover kept her eyes on the wall opposite her. “I don’t—”

“You seemed sure at the time.”

She looked down again to make eye contact with the old gammer, but remained defiantly silent.

Old Mrs Grubb grinned, unperturbed. “My daughter-in-law asked you a question, and I expect you to answer.”

“Mother,” Young Mrs Grubb said warningly. “I’ll wheel you out if you don’t behave.”

“Answer me, girl,” Old Mrs Grubb said, ignoring her. “I’m an old lady and I demand you answer me.”

Clover closed her eyes and assessed what she should do next. When she opened them again she looked at Old Mrs Grubb, who was grinning evilly. _Flattery won’t work on you, will it?_ Then she looked at Mr Grubb. His expression was critical, though not necessarily unkind _. It will with you, but it has to be a very specific kind of flattery._ But then her eyes fell on Young Mrs Grubb. _But it’s you who’s in charge. They think it’s them, but we both know you’re the head of the smial. Oh well._

“What I meant,” Clover said, keeping her voice calm, “was that older and younger Hobbits tend to be difficult and selfish because they see it as the place of everyone else to serve them.”

There was a tense silence. Even Young Mrs Grubb had stopped her scribbling and was staring at Clover over the top of her spectacles. Clover kept her head held high.

Then there was raspy, cackling laughter and Old Mrs Grubb rocked back in her chair. “I like her!” she said. “I want this one.”

“Mother—” Young Mrs Grubb began, rubbing her eyelids.

“She’s much better than the tall one with the freckles.”

“We can’t—”

“I’ll die if you don’t give me what I want. So help me, I will.”

Young Mrs Grubb turned to Dalgo, who was twisted away from her. A hand covered his mouth to conceal his smile. “You’re not helping,” she whispered. “Wheel her out, will you?”

He got to his feet, purposely keeping his face as straight as possible. “Come along, Grandmother.”

“I can feel myself slipping away,” she said, holding her hands outwards as he wheeled out of the door. “Is that you, Mandos?

Young Mrs Grubb returned her attention to Clover. “Most would not be so impertinent in an interview.”

Clover shrugged, unrepentant. “There was no answer I could give that would please both you and Old Mrs Grubb. I thought if I was to lose, it should at least be as myself.”

Young Mrs Grubb removed her spectacles and rubbed her forehead. “This wasn’t how I was expecting today to go.”

Dalgo re-entered the room, closing the door behind him. “I’ve left her with Petunia, but she’s still in a bit of a frenzy.”

Young Mrs Grubb glared at Clover as Dalgo went to sit beside her again. Clover turned her eyes downwards as regret began to creep up on her.

“What exactly were you trying to achieve?” Young Mrs Grubb said. “To impress us with your wit?”

Clover didn’t look up when she replied. “Maybe. Don’t rightly know, madam.”

“What you’ve overlooked is that wit is not what people look for in a maid.” She sighed. “You’re young, so I will give you some advice I hope will benefit you in your future. Put yourself in my place. Would I want to employ a maid who is liable to speak her mind?”

Clover raised her head, contrite. “No, madam.”

“No.” She shuffled through the papers on the desk. “I think that’s all we’ll be needing you for. Would you see her out, Dalgo?”

Dalgo unfolded himself from his seat, where the amusement had been draining out of him. “Yes, Mother.” He held the door open and looked at Clover expectantly.

Clover walked to the door, pale-faced. “I really am sorry, madam,” she said just before she stepped through.

“Good. Then you’ve learned something,” Young Mrs Grubb said, not looking at her.

Clover didn’t move.

“Miss Delver?” Dalgo said.

“Yes. Sorry. Thank you for your time, Mrs Grubb.”

“Mmm.”

Clover stepped into the corridor. After Dalgo closed the door behind them he turned to find her stood with her forehead against the wall.

“Are you quite all right?” he said.

“Not really, sir.” She sighed. “I made a proper mess of that, din’t I?”

“There’s no way I can answer that honestly while remaining within the realms of social acceptability,” he said as he walked back down towards the front door, Clover following him behind. When he looked away from her she scowled, and made a rude gesture in his direction.

“For what it’s worth, I agree with your assessment,” he said.

“You what?”

He turned around, his hands placed in the small of his back, and looked down at her. “Of the dispositions of the young and the old.”

“Oh.” She rubbed her forehead. “With respect, sir, it ain’t worth a whole lot without a job to go with it.”

“No, I don’t suppose it is, but that was rather your own doing. I’m sure you could have thought of something better to say. Is this yours?” he said, carefully lifting her cloak from the coat stand with his forefinger and thumb.

“Aye.” She snatched it from him, annoyed at his disgust. “I know I could’ve said something else. I din’t want to.”

He looked puzzled. “Why?”

Clover tied the ribbons of the cloak. “The same reason you use them long words, I reckon.”

He watched her from the corner of his eye. “That’s quite a presumption.”

“I know.”

He kept his posture tight, as though afraid of this new territory. “What reason is that, then?”

She looked up at him with large brown eyes. “Don’t you know your own mind?”

He turned his face from her, unable to stand the piercing look she was giving him. “Well enough. Do you know yours?”

“Better than I’d like.”

Dalgo watched her as someone watches a lion. He was less attuned then her to finding the inner workings of the mind of others, his own intelligence finding different ways to manifest. He wasn’t used to being unsure of himself. She realised this, and it pleased her.

“Good day, Mr Grubb. Sorry to ‘ave wasted your time.”

He opened the front door, the rain blowing in on the wind. She raised her hood, but before she stepped out Dalgo said, “What’s the answer to your riddle?”

She smiled, pleased at a job well done. Though she wouldn’t get the position, she had succeeded in catching a puffed-up killjoy off guard. It was cold comfort, but she would be lying if she didn’t admit it gave her some satisfaction. “How about we ‘ave a little trade? The job in exchange for the riddle.”

“You must know I won’t do that.”

She sighed. “Ah, well. Can’t blame me for trying.”

He inhaled. “No, I don’t suppose I can. Safe journey.”

She nodded at him, and then disappeared down the garden path without another word. Dalgo realised his face and clothes were damp with the rain, and closed the door before she had disappeared from sight.

* * *

By the time Clover reached home her clothes were soaked through again. Her fingers and face stung with the cold and rain, followed by a burning sensation when she stepped into the hole. By the sound of it all the Delvers were at home, divided up among the different rooms. She numbed her ears to the racket, as she had taught herself to do over the years. When she’d squelched through to the lasses’ room she found Poppy lounged on the middle bed, the collection of ragdolls spread around her. At the other end of the room Rob was sat on the floor while Myrtle and Fastad, knelt on the bed behind him, threaded ribbons through his overgrown hair. When Clover entered the room he gave her a look that distinctly said, ‘Help me’.

“Off with you, lads,” she said, opening the door obligingly. “I need to change.”

“Right. Come on young’un,” Rob said, and heaved himself up, while Fastad scrambled down off the bed.

Rob tried to pull the ribbons out as he walked, but only succeeded in making the knots tighter.

“No!” Myrtle whined. “It took so long!”

Clover grinned at his increasing frustration. “Leave ‘em in. They suit you.”

He glared at her. “Jonson and Jack see me like this I’ll not hear the end of it.”

“Serves you right for letting it get so long.”

“I was only trying to keep ‘em occupied.”

“Oh, all right. Get down so’s I can reach.”

She untangled the ribbons while Rob knelt on the floor. When she was done he left the room, ruffling his hair as he went. “Cheers, Clove.”

Clover started to rifle through the dresser in search of a nightdress. Poppy looked up at her in disgust while Myrtle climbed onto the bed next to her. “You went to meet a lad looking like that?”

Clover glared at her over her shoulder. “Meg tell you about that, did she?”

“Aye.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, I met a lad looking like this.” There was a lingering bitterness from the way Poppy looked at her. “Ain’t you a bit old for dolls?”

Poppy looked down, abashed. “I don’t play games with ‘em no more. It’s just…” She looked at the worn-out figures, made with the off-cuts of adjusted clothes. Most were donated to the family from neighbours and friends whose children had outgrown their toys.

Clover pulled the nightdress over her head and sighed. “It’s all right, Pop, I din’t mean it. I han’t completely given up dolls when I was your age. You know where Meg is?”

“Kitchen,” Myrtle said, picking up a doll.

The washing line that usually zigzagged between the grassy front of the house and the tree in the garden had been brought into the kitchen, turning it into a maze of bed sheets and underclothes. Still she could hear Meg and their mother, Jack’s voice chipping in occasionally. Clover fought her way through the sheets towards the fire where Meg and Mrs Delver were bent over the large tub that served as the family bath, a large pile of washing beside them.

Jack was leaning against the mantelpiece while he waited for the kettle to boil. He looked at Clover confusedly. “Having an early night are you?”

She shrugged. “I’ve already got through two sets of day clothes today. Din’t think Mum’d appreciate me putting on a third.”

Meg looked up at her. The steam from the tub had plastered her hair to her face. “You’re back early. Did it not go as hoped?”

“Not really.”

“Want me to give ‘im that hiding?”

“Nah,” she said, and sat down at the table. “I’ll just set Rob on ‘im.”

“Don’t say that,” Mrs Delver said sharply.

Clover winced. “Sorry, I was only joking.”

“Well, don’t.” She wiped her forehead. “We don’t want none of that. Not anymore.”

No one spoke as dusty memories of Rob’s less-than-ideal past resurfaced.

Jack coughed. “So, what happened?” he said.

Clover shook her head. “It was my fault. I said some things I shouldn’t’ve. I was trying to be clever, and ended up being stupid instead.”

“Aw, never mind, love,” her mother said. “There’ll be other lads.”

“I know, but I feel like such an idiot.” She slumped forward on the table.

“Oh, no.” Meg hung the pair of breeches she’d been scrubbing over the edge of the tub, and dried her hands on her skirt as she walked over to Clover and rubbed her back. “You ain’t stupid. You never have been.”

A pang of guilt hit Clover as she remembered Meg’s real heartbreak. She sat up and gently pushed her hand away. “I’m all right, Meg, don’t mind me.”

Meg gave her a final pat on the shoulder before going back to the washing. Jack took the whistling kettle off the fire, and eyed Clover as he poured it into the teapot. “Who is this swain of yours?”

Clover looked at him sharply. “You wouldn’t know ‘im.”

“No?”

“No.”

He smirked at her. Clover was used to thinking of herself as ‘the clever one’, but there were times she suspected Jack was just as quick as she was. Probably quicker, since he didn’t let his pride get in the way.

“While you’re here could you take the sheets off the line?” Mrs Delver said.

“Don’t, Mum,” Meg said. “I can—”

“I’m all right, really,” Clover said, and pulled the nearest sheet from the line to make a point.

“Ain’t nothing wrong with accepting a little help,” Meg said.

“No,” Clover said as she started to fold the sheet.

She laid the sheet on the table and glanced at Jack. He was witty and self-assured with a healthy sense of absurdity. She saw her mother at the washing tub. Frazzled and flighty. Then there was Meg. Loving. Frightened. Completely closed to outsiders. _I wish you’d take your own advice_ , she thought.


	8. Setting One's Cap

“This one’s lovely,” Lavender said as she ran her thumb over the fine white lace. “I might have to get it.”

Meg murmured her agreement as she looked through a tray of buttons. She wasn’t planning on buying anything, and it wasn’t as though she had the money for it anyway, but she liked to look. She picked up a tiny button, meant for the clothing of a child. It was set with shimmery mother of pearl.

“Or you could get me it for your birthday,” Lavender said, still occupied by the lace.

Meg scoffed, and dropped the button back into the tray. “Where’ll I get the money for that? You’ll get cake like everyone else.”

“But you’re meant to give special presents on your thirty-third,” Lavender said.

“I don’t reckon you’re worth it,” Meg said, joining her at the rack of laces.

There were only three or four other people in the haberdashery, excluding the Hobbits that worked there. The level of noise in the room was so low that Lavender and Meg could only whisper to avoid drawing attention to themselves. In the background the shopkeeper’s wife was cutting off lengths of material with a satisfying crunching sound.

“Any idea what you’re going to do for it yet?” Lavender said.

“Hmm? What?” Meg said. She’d been lost in her own reverie.

“Your birthday. Only nine days to go.”

“Stop,” Meg said, wrinkling her nose.

“Well, you’ll have to do something. You only come of age once.”

“I don’t really feel like doing much,” Meg said, suddenly very interested in a ream of linen.

“No?” Lavender said. “What about just going down the _Dragon_?”

“Maybe.”

“All right,” Lavender licked her lips. “Oi! Everyone!” she shouted. “Meet us at the _Dragon_ on the ninth!”

“Lavender!” Meg hissed.

“You too!” Lavender said, pointing at the red-haired lad behind the counter.

The shopkeeper’s wife scowled up at them. “Could you buy something or leave, please?”

“Aye. Sorry, mistress,” Meg said, pushing Lavender out of the door. She noticed the pale face of the red-haired lad and smiled apologetically. “Sorry, lad.” When they were outside Meg covered her face, and started laughing in spite of herself. “Oh dear,” she said. “Can’t take you anywhere, can I?”

“Nah.”

“That poor lad looked terrified.”

“Good.” Lavender smiled. “Your spirits picked up at all?”

Meg smiled sadly. “I reckon so. But don’t do that again.”

“I promise. So what do we do now?”

“Can we go to yours?” Meg said.

“If you like.”

The roads were still muddy from the deluge they had received earlier in the week. Secretly Meg quite liked the aftereffects of rain. The way she saw it, even the world needed a good clean now and then. Most of all, though, she liked the refreshing smell that lingered afterwards, and how all the colours came out. She could do without the mud, though.

It wasn’t long after they left that Clover entered the shop, setting the bell above the door tinkling. She approached the shopkeeper’s wife. “Sorry, mistress, but you don’t happen—”

“We don’t have a job going any more than we did last month!”

* * *

A little way away, on Hobbiton Road, Tiger Lily was stood alone. She wrung her fingers and turned about in a small circle. It was impossible to stand still for more than two seconds. In truth, this was the first time she’d ever walked alone with someone who wasn’t Sango or a relative. On top of it all, she had only realised the day before that she and Rob hadn’t agreed a specific time to meet. Or, indeed, a specific part of the road. So she had chosen to wait just to the south of Bywater proper, reasoning that he would have to come to it eventually, and had arrived some time before noon. Now her feet were beginning to ache, and she thought the people passing her on the road were giving her funny looks.

Sango’s warning was also playing on her mind. Even if he had admitted he had no solid reason to believe Rob was a cad, he had still reiterated to her that this meeting wasn’t a good idea. She wasn’t entirely sure how to tell who was a cad and who wasn’t. She knew they were dishonourable lads, but she didn’t think she would be able to recognise a cad if she saw one, especially as a true cad would probably want to hide their caddish nature. What if Rob was one and she never even realised?

It occurred to her that this wouldn’t get much better when or if Rob did make his appearance. Walking with a farmhand probably wasn’t proper. And she’d only just become respectable, too. She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. _You couldn’t even be respectable for a full week_ , she thought. _Why didn’t you listen to Sango? He would be able to tell if Master Rob’s a cad. If it wasn’t for him the possibility wouldn’t even have occurred to you._

“Fretful thing, ain’t you?”

She opened her eyes to see Rob standing by, a perplexed look on his face.

“Oh. Hello. Sorry, I just thought I might have missed you, since we didn’t agree on an exact place to meet.” She stopped herself before she started to ramble. “How are you?”

“Well enough. Yourself?”

“Fine, thank you. Shall we?”

He nodded and they started to walk up the road, side by side. “You had a good day, miss?”

“Yes, thank you. Sango, my cousin and I went collecting horse-chestnuts.”

“That’s… nice.”

Tiger Lily picked up on the edge of distaste in his voice. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” The truth was that he was annoyed by the thought of his employer’s son running about the Farthing like a child while he worked his land.

“So…” Tiger Lily said, swinging her arms back and forth nervously. “What have you been doing on the farm today?”

“The roof of the old stables came down in the rain and we’re repairing it.”

She watched him with wide eyes. “What’s that like? What do you do?”

His eyebrows drew together. “I don’t get you, miss,” he said.

She blinked at him. “Why?”

“Down the _Dragon_ you sat and listened to me talking about ditching for a good five minutes. I hope you don’t mind me saying, but I wouldn’t expect a lady to care about that sort of thing. I mean, my dad’s worked the fields his whole life, and he don’t care.” He paused for breath. “So why do you?”

Tiger Lily had to think about it before delivering her answer. “I just want to understand.”

“Understand what?”

She shrugged. “Anything. I don’t understand much, you see.”

“And you want to fix this…” Rob said slowly, “by learning about ditching and fixing stable roofs?”

“Uh… Yes.” Tiger Lily bit her lip. “It’s silly, isn’t it? I’ve only just realised how silly it is.”

Rob put his hands in the pockets of his breeches. “If it makes you happy, miss, I don’t reckon it matters how silly it is.”

She grinned foolishly. “That’s a good philosophy.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Well, I think it’s nice.” She held her hands behind her back and walked lightly, nearly skipping. “Are you going to tell me about repairing the roof, then? Or is that too dull for you?”

The ghost of a smile haunted Rob’s mouth as he said, “Ain’t nothing too dull for me, miss.”

He talked about the stable roof as they walked, Tiger Lily occasionally interjecting with questions. The road to Hobbiton was long, and at a shallow incline, and by the time they reached the _Ivy Bush_ Rob was out of breath. Tiger Lily’s breathing was also heavy, but there was no indication of weariness in her tread when she trotted up to the bar to order the food.

“Do a lot of walking, do you?” he said when she went to sit opposite him on a small table.

“Oh, yes. Nearly every day.” She took in his damp brow and smiled. “Why? Are you ashamed at being outdone by a lady?”

He covered his mouth with a hand as he smiled. “No. I’ve been working today, unlike you. I’d like to see how far you could walk after spending a day on the farm.”

“I might accept that offer.”

His smiled disappeared. “You don’t really mean that, miss?”

Her eyes turned down. “No. Maybe not.” She started to tap out a rhythm on the table.

“So is that what you and Master Sango do all day? Just walking about?”

She looked at him again to make eye-contact, and pursed her lips. “Well, not all day, and not every day. It depends on the weather.”

“Where’d you go?”

“Anywhere, really. Anywhere we can get to and back from in a day. Or further, if we’ve prepared to camp overnight.”

“You ever go to the Three Farthing Stone?”

Tiger Lily parted her lips in surprise. “Yes, sometimes.” She noticed the twinkle in Rob’s eye and smiled out of curiosity. “How did you know about that?”

“My dad and oldest brother were two of them that was sent to get you both home.”

“Gosh, sorry about that,” she said, grimacing. “That’s so embarrassing.”

He shrugged, which with his size was like watching a hillock make itself comfortable. “Long time ago now.”

“We’ve gotten better at timing our walks,” she said.

“Good to hear.”

The thing of it was that the young Sango and Tiger Lily had meant to walk to the Three Farthing Stone and it had gotten dark before they’d started making their way back. They’d been unable to find their way home, and Mr Boffin had enlisted a number of his workers to help with the search. Rob hadn’t been able to sleep out of worry, and his mum had let him stay up with her and drink warm milk while they waited for Mr Delver and Jonson to come home. At the time she had been close to giving birth to Martin, and he had sat with his head leaned against her bump to feel the new baby kicking. Jonson and their dad hadn’t come home until the early hours of the morning, the latter cursing the uppers’ inability to control their children. Rob decided this detail was probably best left unsaid.

A barmaid approached their table, a plate balanced on either hand. “Two fish and chips?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Tiger Lily and Rob maintained eye contact, neither wanting to meet the eyes of the barmaid as she set the plates down. It was only now, under the observation of a third party, that they had both realised how they were different from the other groups of Hobbits that were sat around them. There weren’t a great deal of well-to-do young ladies there in the first place, and those that were certainly weren’t with lads like Rob.

Rob looked down at the plate and back up at Tiger Lily. He’d never actually had a whole portion of fish and chips to himself before. “You know I can’t pay you.”

“I wasn’t going to ask you to,” she said. “I mean it only makes sense to…” She sensed this was a difficult topic. “Can’t we talk about something else?” She speared a chip and popped it in her mouth.

“I can’t not think it, though,” he said, pushing a hand through is hair. “It’s meant to be the lad what pays.”

She glanced up from her plate. “Why?”

Rob’s brow creased in thought. “Don’t know. Just the noble thing to do, I s’pose.”

“Why?”

“By the—” Rob picked up a chip with his fingers. “You’re worse’n the little’uns.”

“I only want to know why,” she said. Her stomach dropped away when she his look of frustration. “Sorry. I only wanted to… I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

Rob looked down at the plate. He had thought he’d be able to cope with this—after all, who’d know but them? But now that he had come to it, it was too much. “We don’t take charity,” he said, voicing the mantra that had been repeated to him over and over since childhood.

“It’s not charity,” Tiger Lily said quietly. “I didn’t invite you out of pity, I invited you because you were nice to talk to.” She thought about the way people looked at her, like she was a child, and scratched into the grain of the table top. “I know what being pitied is like and it’s really ruddy horrible,” she said with feeling. She looked up to find Rob was watching her sceptically.

“‘Ruddy’?” he said.

She frowned briefly. “Yes…?”

He tilted his head to one side. “I din’t think anyone said, ‘ruddy.’ Why don’t you say ‘bloody’ like normal people?”

“That’s swearing.”

“Not properly.” He ate another chip. “You must say worse sometimes.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she said airily.

“Say ‘bloody.’ Go on.”

She steeled herself. “Bl—Ugh!” She pressed her hands over her mouth. “I can’t.”

Rob started to laugh; a deep, rumbling chuckle. Tiger Lily took her hands away from her mouth, smiling. _I did that_ , she thought, shuffling her feet restlessly. She felt odd. Giddy. There was something peculiar, and not unpleasant, in the way he was smiling at her. This was probably what Sango was referring to when he warned her about walking with Rob. But she didn’t feel uncomfortable. Not in the least. _Maybe I should_ , she thought. But instead she smiled back, and rested her chin on her hands. There was time to feel uncomfortable later.

* * *

Meg was a firm believer in smials being the only proper dwelling for a Hobbit, but she conceded that she sometimes found the constant darkness oppressive, and the Hobbles’ home with all its windows provided a nice little retreat. Lavender’s mother had opened said windows to give the house an airing, and Meg smiled at her friend as she shivered.

“Mum, can’t we shut the windows now?” Lavender said, keeping her arms close.

“Can’t stand stale air, my girl,” Mrs Hobble said from where she was emptying the grate. “A little cold’s good for a person.”

Lavender glared at her mother’s stooped back. “Well, what about Meg? She ain’t been well.”

Meg sipped her tea. “I don’t mind, Mrs Hobble. It’s refreshing. Brisk,” she added, grinning at the dirty look Lavender gave her.

“Ah, I’d forgotten about that.” Mrs Hobble rose stiffly to her feet and walked to the dinner table, where Meg and Lavender were sitting. “How are you doing, love?” she said, patting Meg’s hand.

Meg withdrew her hand somewhat more abruptly then she’d intended. “Fine, thank you.”

Mrs Hobble made eye contact with her daughter, who’s only reply was a subtle change of expression. Meg was aware of this silent exchange, but pretended she hadn’t noticed because that was easier. As Mrs Hobble went to answer a knock at the door she focussed on the sunlight that came through the windows and lit up the floorboards. She wished people would stop asking after her. She was fine. She’d always been fine. Or if there was a point at which she’d not been fine it wasn’t anything she couldn’t cope with perfectly well on her own.

Mrs Hobble looked over her shoulder at the lasses from where she stood in the doorway. “I’ve got a lady here wants to see me. Could you two head through to the workshop, please?”

Meg took her mug with her as she followed Lavender to the workshop, cupping her hands around it to warm her chilled fingers. She wrinkled her nose at the distinctive smell of sawdust. The reason for the smell (which was strong even by the standards of the workshop) was explained by Nickon, who was sanding down the spokes on a wheel that was mounted on a hub clamp.

“What’re you still doing here?” Lavender said, brushing the dust off a chair and sitting down while Meg went to stand with her back to the wall.

“Could ask the same of you,” he said, wiping his hands on a dish rag that was slung over the workbench.

“We’ve been kicked out,” Lavender said, crossing one leg over the other. “Mum’s got one of ‘er mothers in. What’s your excuse?”

“I’m near finished, and Mr Whitfoot said he’d pay extra if we had it ready by tomorrow.” He nodded at Meg. “All right there, lass?”

She smiled and nodded in return. “Well enough, lad.”

He leaned against the workbench and inclined his head in Lavender’s direction. “You met ‘er new lad yet?”

“Not properly. I’ve seen him on the farm, of course, and we bumped into each other last… last Sunday.”

“That’ve been the day he asked our dad for permission,” Nickon said with a grin. “That was fun, weren’t it, Lav?”

Lavender had closed her eyes and was pressing her fingers to the point between her eyebrows. “It was bloody horrible. I don’t get why he was so keen on it.”

“If you’re going to set your cap at one of the uppers, this sort of thing will happen. They do things different,” Meg said and drank the last of her tea. “You met his family yet?”

“No.”

Meg made a hissing noise as she inhaled through gritted teeth.

“What was that for?” Lavender said, sitting up.

“Just I’m not sure you’ll be welcomed all that warmly. Mr Boffin ain’t one to tolerate nonsense, and with you being a working-hobbit and your history being what it is—”

“I ain’t ashamed of being a hussy,” Lavender said standing indignantly. “It takes effort to get a reputation as sordid as mine.”

“Nor should you be ashamed,” Nickon said, returning to the sanding. “Anyone can sit a home being virtuous.”

“Ain’t nothing to me if they do,” Lavender said. “They can go their way an’ I’ll go mine.”

“I ain’t saying you should be ashamed,” Meg said soothingly. “What I am saying is that Mr and Mrs Boffin might see things different.”

“I don’t care what they think.”

“Master Sango might.”

“If he breaks with me ‘cus of them then he don’t deserve me.” She sat down again and gave a little huff, her spacious skirts spreading around her. “I don’t get why everyone tries to make everything so complicated.”

“It must be nice being you,” Meg said dryly. “I was bloody terrified when I first met Winden’s parents.” She cast an aside glance at Nickon. “We’ve broken. Don’t know if you heard.”

“Heard it down the _Dragon._ Sorry to hear it,” he said, leaning on the hub clamp. He grinned. “Some lads don’t appreciate what they’ve got, eh?”

She smiled as brightly as she could. “Nice of you to say.” She turned to face him directly. “So I’m unattached now.”

Confusion flickered across his features. “Well, I reckoned you would be.”

“Aye.”

“Aye.” He took up his sandpaper again, giving Meg one final bemused glance.

Lavender’s eyebrows had been travelling further and further up her forehead as she listened to this exchange. She had just opened her mouth to speak when her mother opened the door to the house. “You two can come back in now. And you, my lad, if you’ve a mind to.”

“I’ll be going out when I’m done, Mum,” he said as she disappeared back through.

Lavender rose, looking oddly uncertain. “Come on, Meg,” she said, leading the way.

But Meg stayed where she was, her gaze fixed firmly on Nickon. “Fancy coming down the _Dragon_ with us on the ninth?”

“Uh…” He drew his eyebrows together, though whether it was out of confusion, frustration or thought, Meg couldn’t say. “Not sure if I can make it. What’s special about the ninth?”

“It’s my coming of age,” she said. “Lavender’ll be coming, and I’ll ask Rose if she’s to come. Would like to miss you out, you’ve always been kind to me.”

He smiled apologetically. “Sorry, lass. Have a good one, if I don’t see you again afore then.”

“You coming, Meg?” Lavender called from the house.

“Aye.” Meg walked up the couple of steps that led to the house, but turned her head to get one last glimpse of Nickon as she did.

* * *

“So now that field’s being planted with winter wheat, and the other’ll be left to fallow for the year.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means it’ll be left to nature, for Ivon to do with as she pleases.” Rob kept his hands firmly in his pockets as he and Tiger Lily walked down the shallow decline of Hobbiton road. Trees lined either side of the road and crisp leaves crunched beneath their feet.

“Why? Because from my perspective,” she said and smiled, putting a hand on her chest, “by which I mean the perspective of a clueless observer, that’s letting the field go to waste for a year.”

“Not letting it fallow’ll damage your yields. It’s like…” He withdrew a hand from his pocket as he tried to formulate his train of thought. “It’s like you want to give your workers a rest to eat at midday. If you don’t you might get more done short-term but they’ll be useless to you by evening. The earth likes to have a rest too, now and then. It don’t go to waste neither, we’ll let the sheep on when the weeds’ve grown enough to give ‘em good pickings.”

Tiger Lily thought this over. “That’s terribly clever. I wouldn’t be able to think of that, even if I lived for five-hundred years.”

“Not hard to impress you, is it?”

She looked at him bashfully. “Sorry.”

“What for?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said with a sigh. “Just for being alive, I suppose.”

“Ahoy! Miss Took!”

Up until this point Tiger Lily had only been vaguely aware of the steady sound of approaching ponies behind them, and the new voice startled her. She and Rob looked around at riders and she tensed as she heard him mutter an expletive. Even from this distance she could tell that the rider in front—who had been the one to speak—was Sango’s brother Rico, accompanied by Abelia and Monno Grubb. She and Rob stepped to the side of the road to allow the riders to draw level with them.

“Hello, Miss Tiger Lily,” Rico said, adjusting his posture as he brought his pony to a halt. “It’s been a while. How are you?” His features stayed open in an expression of faux-amiability. “How’s your father? Still touched in the head?”

In her mind Tiger Lily came up with a witty retort that defended her father while retaining what social graces she had. But she couldn’t think of one, and even if she could she wouldn’t have the nerve to use it. “Yes.”

“Sorry to hear it.” The corner of his mouth twitched into a vicious little smile. He glanced back at Abelia before looking down at Tiger Lily again. “How’s the hunting?”

The old, sickly shame came over Tiger Lily as the smile caught on Abelia’s face. Even Monno—who she knew only a little but was always pleasant enough—stiffened his posture, making his pony uneasy. She folded her hands tightly and looked to the ground. “I don’t hunt.”

“Is that right?” His gaze flickered to Rob and his brow creased. “Is he bothering you?”

“No,” Tiger Lily said, surprised at this assumption. She looked up at Rob and it was only now that she realised he was just as tense as she was, standing to attention like a Shirriff officer and keeping his eyes dead ahead. There was no trace of emotion on his face.

“Rather an odd choice of companion, though,” Abelia said.

“Abbie!” Monno hissed, and looked apologetically at Rob. “Apologise.”

“Sorry, master,” she said, though the tone she spoke in made it clear she wasn’t.

“Thank you, miss,” Rob said in a tight voice.

Rico dismounted and approached them with a swaggering step. He was a year Sango’s junior, and there was a clear resemblance between them. If there were a bust of Sango’s face, and a sculptor got to work on it, refining the features and making them sharper, handsomer, then they would probably end up with a sculpture of Rico. In their respective characters, however, there was little resemblance. They had been more similar as children, but the mean streak all children have blossomed in Rico when he was reaching the end of his teens. And so Sango was kind and hopeless, and his brother was cruel and witty. They had long ago despaired of each other.

“Aren’t you one of the drudges from the farm?” he said.

“Aye, sir.”

“This one doesn’t speak much, Abbie,” Rico said over his shoulder. “You can say anything you like to him and he’ll just look through you. Isn’t that right, you brute?”

“Wouldn’t know, sir.”

“Do you know, I think he doesn’t say much because there’s nothing going on in his head,” he said, shoving back Rob’s forehead with his palm, smiling like a child. Rob offered no resistance, and still his expression revealed nothing of what was going on in is head.

“I think, perhaps, we should be going,” Monno said carefully, gripping the reins of his pony and eyeing Rob with caution.

“I think you’re right. Do leave him alone, Rico, he’ll beat you into the ground,” Abelia said. “Nice to see you, Lily.”

“And you,” Tiger Lily mumbled.

As they rode away she saw Rico lean over to speak to Abelia, causing her to throw back her head and laugh. When they were gone Rob crossed the road and leaned against a tree, breathing heavily, his great hands balled into fists so tight the knuckles were white. She took a few careful steps towards him. “Master Rob?”

“Leave me a bit,” he said, not turning around.

She did as he said, fidgeting anxiously at the side of the road as she watched his breathing slowly return to its normal rhythm and the pressure melt away from the muscles in his arms and shoulders. Eventually he stood up straight and squared his shoulders. “Right,” he grunted, and turned to continue back down to Bywater.

Tiger Lily scurried after him, like a lapdog trailing a wolf. There was still a tenseness to the way he moved and carried himself that betrayed his inner turmoil. “Does he talk like that to you a lot?” she said.

“Often enough,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road ahead. 

“Would you like me to have a word with Sango? Maybe he could—”

“I don’t need a lass to fight for me.”

She scowled. “Well, if _you_ won’t—”

He stopped abruptly, and Tiger Lily nearly collided with him. “Can’t. Not ‘won’t’.”

She blinked up at him and said, “Why?”

Rob growled, and passed a hand over his face. “‘ _Why?_ ’ Don’t you have no sense in your head?” He turned to face her properly and gestured towards Bywater. “I raise a complaint and Master Rico says as how it was all my fault. So I lose my position and my wage and my family are out of coin.” He let his arm drop again. “ _‘Why?_ ’” he said with disdain.

Tiger Lily swallowed and kept her eyes to the ground, clenching her hands together. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I, um, I’m sorry.” She turned from him and started to walk back to Bywater, scratching at her knuckles while her internal monologue spiralled down into its usual pit of self-loathing.

Rob watched and go, and screwed up his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. He swore again. “Miss,” he called.

She heard him and turned around, still twisting her fingers together. He rubbed the back of his neck, his expression bashful. “Sorry, miss,” he said. “Shouldn’t ‘f lost my temper.”

She shook her head and tried to smile, tugging at her bunches. “Oh, you needn’t be. It was a silly thing to ask, and Rico treated you so harshly of course you were going to be angry.”

He sighed and walked up to her. His gait was smooth now, all tension gone. “Making excuses for me won’t help no one.” He looked on her pityingly. “Or at least make ‘em for yourself as well.”

She stared at her feet. “There isn’t an excuse. I should have known better. I should…” she trailed off into nothing, still not wanting to meet his eye.

“Mayhap, but it din’t warrant the reply I gave. An’ now you know you won’t need to ask next time.” Still she couldn’t look at him. He gently took her hand in his. “Eh, lass?”

Tiger Lily dared to look up at him, but winced and turned her face downwards again when she saw his expression. She wished people wouldn’t look at her like she was something that needed to be looked after, but she hadn’t earned the right to any other sort of look. Instead her eyes settled on their hands, hers completely hidden in between his large fingers. She found she wanted to push her hand further against the appealing, rough skin of his. Then she remembered her own skin was soft: a physical mark of her inexperience and silliness. She withdrew her hand, flustered and embarrassed. Rob had realised at about the same time how his work worn hands would feel to her, and immediately plunged both back into the pockets of his breeches, equally embarrassed.

He nodded back down the lane. “D’you want to…?”

She gave a little nod and they started to walk back side by side. They didn’t talk like they had done before their encounter with Rico and the Grubbs.

“Umm…” Tiger Lily bit her bottom lip. She knew what she wanted to say, but the fear of rejection choked her. Then she saw Rob’s expression, and realised he was just as nervous as she was. Well, maybe not quite… “I don’t think you’re an odd choice of companion,” she said.

He still wasn’t happy, but some of the anxiety lifted from his face. “Cheers, miss,” he said.

They passed through the dappled shadows cast by the setting sun. Below them the Pool sparkled, only occasionally peeping between the tree trunks at the two tweenagers, innocent as snowdrops.


	9. Matters of Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be clear I mean ‘pellar’ more in the context of a folk healer rather than a practitioner of magic. It was the only synonym for ‘wise woman’ that I was happy with and didn’t contain the words ‘man’ or ‘woman’. And since I’d already had a foot in Cornish culture with the Crying I decided I might as well go with ‘pellar’.  
> For anyone thinking that ‘pellar’ is inseparable from magic use because it likely derives from the re _pell_ ing of evil spirits, I say: Quiet, you.  
> Disclaimer: Henbane is poisonous, please don’t use it to treat your joint pain.

Out of the six eldest Delvers, Rob had always felt somewhat pushed to the side by force of personality. Meg had been their mother’s right hand for as long as he could remember, Jonson and Jack seemed perpetually in competition to prove who was more dominant, Clover was a force in her own right, and Maizey goaded everyone on from the side-lines, taking pleasure in the chaos. Rob was usually content to just sit and watch while the politics of sibling-hood played out, not saying or doing anything until it was necessary for someone to physically hold Jonson and Jack apart. He had no ideas of becoming the ‘head lad’ if that was what they were fighting for. There was no doubt in his mind that honour belonged to one of them (though he had no idea which), and they were welcome to it as far as he was concerned. Even back when he’d gone in for fighting other lads—he winced at those particular memories—it had never been for prestige or to prove he could. It had usually just been because they had made him really, really angry. He had ambitions, but he was quite happy to potter about in the background while everyone else pecked at each other like hens.

Maybe that was why the younger ones seemed to prefer him out of the elder six. He was more mouldable than the others, being more or less happy to be whatever they wanted at that precise moment. He wasn’t sure how he felt about this. It didn’t help that he felt somewhat out of his depth at this precise moment.

“An’ then she said I was the one who started the rumours,” Poppy said as she sewed up the fraying hem of the bed sheet. “But really it was Lilac. An’ then _Lilac_ told ‘em it was me as well, an’ she told ‘em all I hate Sea Aster.”

“Right.” His brow creased with concentration as he tried to sew up the hem on the other end of the sheet, holding the needle clumsily between forefinger and thumb. Jonson and Jack would never dare to be seen taking part in lasses’ work, but Rob had never felt any particular need to assert his masculinity on that front. Along his line of thinking, in the same way that paying for a meal was the chivalrous thing to do, so was helping his mother and sisters keep the smial on occasion. “Which is Sea Aster again?” he said.

“The one what works down the poulterer’s. It’s not that I hate her, it’s just that I don’t like now snide she can get when the mood takes her.”

The impression Rob got was that all of Poppy’s friends were equally snide. “Don’t rightly know what to say, Pop,” he said. “Sure you’d not be best talking to one of the other lasses about it?”

She shrugged and rotated the sheet as she reached the corner. “Myrtle’s still too little, Clover just thinks it’s all silly, and Meg and Maizey always try and find a way to ‘make it better’, sort of thing. Sometimes there ain’t no way to make it better an’ you just want someone to listen to you. That make sense?”

“Reckon so,” he said, going back to the sewing. Part of the reason he had set about helping Poppy was that he could still feel Master Rico’s hand on his forehead, and the words he had used against him made a tight knot in his chest. He needed to make it all go away, and the easiest way to do that was to lash out, but he had learned through making continuous mistakes through his teens and early tweens that lashing out was not a good idea—occasional relapses aside. It just made people afraid of him, which made him feel anxious and made the need to lash out even worse than before.

That left him with the option of trying to distract himself and simply waiting for the knot to go away.

At least things seemed to be going nicely with the Took lass, though it was all a bit odd. When they’d parted she’d held her hand out for him, palm to the ground, presumably for him to kiss, but her face had been nothing but embarrassed. The gesture had felt far too formal for him and in a moment of panic he’d given her a firm handshake instead. Her expression had been quizzical, but also, he realised, pleasantly surprised. So that was all right, then.

“I forgot where I got to…” Poppy said despondently, picking up a pair of scissors from the sewing basket.

“Lilac told everyone you din’t like Sea Aster.”

“Right.” She started to snip through some stitches. “So then Sea Aster—”

“I did those, din’t I?” Rob said, looking at the stitches Poppy was unpicking.

“Aye, you did. I can tell because they’re slack.”

He frowned in frustration. “It’s bloody fiddly.”

“You’ll get the hang of it.”

“Dinner’s ready!” Mrs Delver called from the kitchen.

There was a clatter as a dozen pairs of feet rushed to the kitchen. The Delvers all knew what time dinner was, and like all respectable Hobbits, always made sure they were in the vicinity when the time came. If anyone wasn’t there then it was usually a sign that something was wrong. Rob was left to fold the sheet before ambling after Poppy into the kitchen and depositing himself in the nearest vacant seat. Looking around Rob realised that everyone was there. Mrs Delver, Meg and Clover were busying themselves with serving out the food, which accounted for three of the empty seats. There was still one left over, though…

The front door opened, and Mrs Delver lifted her head at the sound as she continued slicing the bread. “Did you see the pellar?” she called.

“Aye,” the voice of Mr Delver responded from the hall. “Gave me some henbane oil.”

She grimaced. “Put it in our room. Somewhere hard to reach.”

Clover was shuffling around the table to serve out the mashed turnip, and as she passed Jonson he said, “Not much chance of you getting at it, then.”

Rob winced as Clover brought her hand around Jonson’s head with an audible _smack_.

“Ow!”

“Jonson, don’t make fun of Clover’s height. Clover, don’t hit your brother,” Mrs Delver said resignedly. “Lawks. I din’t think I’d still be telling you that at your age.”

“Sorry, Mum,” Clover said with all the tenderness of a snake, glowering at Jonson while she did.

Mrs Delver looked at the nearly-full table in front of her. “Any of you find a bottle and you don’t know what’s in it, you put the cork straight back in and wash your hands. Henbane can kill a person. You understand me?”

A vaguely-affirmative mumble was the only response she received.

“I said, ‘do you understand me,’ Martin.”

“I know, Mum,” the lad said, slumped forward on the table with his arms folded.

“Good.” She watched as Mr Delver entered the kitchen, rubbing his shoulder. “Think it’ll help?”

“Hope so,” he said, rotating his arm in its socket. “Did my old dad good when his back started giving him grief.”

“Aye,” she said forlornly. “I feel old.”

“That’s because we are old.”

_“Yes, thank you Jon.”_

He watched her concernedly for a moment before walking up behind her. “How’s my Joy, then?” he said, placing a kiss on her neck.

“Get off,” she said, a broad smile lighting up her features as she squirmed. “Bloody rake.”

“Don’t go cold on me,” he said, wrapping his arms around her waist and nuzzling into her neck.

A chorus of disgusted cries rose up from the children.

“Oh, be quiet,” Mr Delver said, looking at them. “If it weren’t for this sort of thing, none of you’d be here.”

This elicited a new bout of cries. Only Meg stayed quiet, laughing silently as she set two jugs of water on the table.

Mr Delver released his wife and went to sit in the chair between Danny and Martin. “And my life’d be a lot easier.”

“You’d miss us if we was gone,” Maizey said.

“You’re the first I’d be without,” he said. “Let’s see…” He looked over his children, deciding who was the most delicate. “I’ll keep Poppy, Rob, Myrtle, Fastad and… Meg. The rest of you can push off.”

“Push off yourself,” Jack’s voice called from the other end of the table.

Mr Delver grinned at this. “There’s my lad.”

“Will you keep me, Dad?” Martin said, tugging at the shoulder of his father’s waistcoat.

“Oh, all right then,” Mr Delver said, picking Martin up under the arms and pulling him into his lap. “Seeing as you asked nicely.”

“What about me?” Danny said.

“Definitely not. Not after all that trouble we had with you letting the pigs out.”

“I din’t mean to!” Danny said petulantly.

“No? And the cravats on the sheep?”

Danny opened his mouth, but hesitated. “That weren’t my idea.”

“Hmm. What I found worrying about that was the amount of forethought you must’ve put in.”

“Stop all this, now,” Mrs Delver said, as she made her way around the table with the potatoes. “We wouldn’t be without any of you.”

“Speak for yourself,” Mr Delver said as Martin wriggled off his lap to return to his own seat.

The little lad looked disappointedly at his plate. “Ain’t there any meat, Mum?” he said.

“Not this time. Maybe next week, lad.” She kissed his mop of brown curls before continuing down the table.

Meg closed her eyes. Her illness had cost the family nearly half of her usual weekly wage. “I’m— I’m really sorry, Mum.”

“Hush, lass,” Mr Delver said, pouring himself a drink. “You couldn’t help it.”

Meg didn’t meet his eye. “No,” she said in a whisper.

Rob looked down at his plate. Even with the fish and chips earlier he could easily have eaten all of it. He sighed, and tore his piece of bread in half. “There you are, lad,” he said, passing the bread over to Martin.

“You feeling all right, Rob?” Mrs Delver said, putting a hand on his forehead as she walked past. “You ain’t coming down with anything are you?”

“I’m fine, Mum.”

“Well, don’t go giving up your food,” Mr Delver said. “I know you mean well, but we need you hale.”

Martin, sensing that he might be asked to give the bread back, stuffed the entire piece in his mouth at once.

Rob shrugged. “I had lunch at an inn.”

“Did you, now?” Mr Delver said, leaning forward. “How’d you pay for that, then?”

“Went with a friend.”

“And they paid, did they?”

Rob mumbled his assent.

“And how’re you going to pay ‘em back, eh?” Mr Delver said, tearing a piece off his own bread. “You know we don’t take charity.”

Rob pushed his mashed turnip around his plate. “They offered.”

“I don’t care, lad. I won’t have my children getting by on other people’s coin.”

“Don’t worry, Dad,” Maizey—who’d been eavesdropping—said. “It’ll have been that posh lass what’s taken a fancy to him.”

Mr Delver raised his eyebrows. “Posh lass?”

Rob glared at her. “Don’t.”

“What posh lass?” Mrs Delver said, glancing from one to the other.

There was a sinking feeling in his stomach. He looked pleadingly at his sister. “Don’t. Please.”

“A Took,” Maizey said triumphantly.

Silence crept over the table. Rob looked apprehensively at the sea of faces staring back at him. Then…

“What Took?”

“The same one from the farm?”

“Is she rich?”

“How?”

“Why?”

“What about the Tooks?”

Rob’s breathing quickened. There were too many voices, and all of them were shouting at him. He brought his hands down heavily on the table and rose to his full height. “Shut it!” he bellowed.

Immediately the room was silenced again, the faces now upturned and wide-eyed. They were frightened. Rob lifted his hands from the table, flexing his fingers self-consciously. “Um…” He hurried out of the room as quickly as he could.

Mr Delver looked over at Maizey. “Well done.”

“Sorry,” she said, looking down, suddenly contrite. “I din’t mean…”

“No one ever does. It’s all right, lad,” he said, rubbing Martin’s back. The lad had leaned over to hide his face in Mr Delver’s waistcoat.

“Maizey,” Mrs Delver said quietly, standing next to her. “This Took—”

“I’d maybe leave it for now,” Mr Delver said. “We can talk about it later.”

She scowled at her husband. “I know what those Tooks get up to. I’m not having him get involved with all that.”

Rob’s seat remained conspicuously empty as the other Delvers began quiet, subdued conversations while they ate.

Meg was the first to finish and rise from her seat. “We got any hanks of wool, Mum?”

“One or two in my knitting basket, I think. You don’t have to, Meg,” Mrs Delver said.

Meg shook her head lightly. “I’ve dealt with him as many times as you. I won’t bother if he’s still wound up.”

In the parlour she found Rob sat on one of the ancient settees that her parents had always owned, the cushions crushed rock hard from more than thirty years’ extensive use. He was hunched forward, his face to the ground and massaging the fingers on his right hand.

Meg folded her arms and leaned against the doorway. “You hit the wall again?”

His head snapped up and he looked at her sheepishly. “No?”

She kept her face impassive and reached a hand out to him. “Let me see, then.”

He reluctantly held his hand forward to her so she could see the grazed knuckles, smeared with little streaks of blood. She clicked her tongue and pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket. “You shouldn’t do it, you know.”

“Sorry.”

Meg tied her handkerchief, and turned her attention to their mother’s knitting basket. She pulled out a hank of green wool. “Right, come on. Sit up.”

Rob groaned. “Please don’t, Meg. I’m not a child no more.”

“Hands.”

He surrendered, hanging his head and holding his hands out parallel, palms facing each other. Meg slipped the hank over them. It didn’t take her long to find the knot that held the two ends together, and she started to wind it into a ball.

He looked away to the side, scowling. “Bloody mother hen. Always ‘ave been.”

“Someone needs to be,” she said briskly. “Hush, now.”

As they sat in silence they heard the steady stream of siblings leave the kitchen. Meg could recognise the step of each member of the family, and kept track of who was where. Maizey and Hender had gone out. Poppy had gone to the lasses’ room, while the twins and Martin had gone to the lads’ room. Their dad, Jonson and Jack had gone out, presumably for an after-dinner pipe. None of them even tried to go in the parlour. Rob watched the wool unwinding little by little. It was their grandmother—who he had been close to—who had started this little ritual, which forced him to sit still for an extended period. In the past it had sometimes taken three or four hanks for him to calm down completely. This wasn’t one of those days.

Eventually the last of the wool was unwound from Rob’s hands. He let his arms fall limply as Meg tucked the ball up. “Feeling better?” she said.

“Mmm.”

“Good. How’s your hand?”

He removed the handkerchief, and clenched and unclenched his fist experimentally. “All right.”

“Lovely.” She took her hanky back and gently took Rob’s arm, guiding him to his feet and through the door. “Let’s get some food in you.”

Rob walked with a slight stoop, as though trying to make himself appear as small as possible. “I din’t mean to frighten ‘em.”

“I know.”

Rob twisted his fingers together nervously. “Few days back Jonson asked if I wanted to thrash Winden, an’ I said ‘no’. That was right, weren’t it?”

“Did he?” He could tell by the tone of her voice that she and Jonson would be having words later. “Yes, you did right.”

Only three of the Delvers were left in the kitchen: Mrs Delver washing the crockery while Clover dried and Myrtle put them away. When Rob came back into the room Myrtle withdrew and went to hide behind their mother.

“It’s all right, Mert,” he said, sitting at his place by his half-finished dinner. She watched him but didn’t move. He smiled apologetically. “Sorry I shouted.”

Myrtle approached cautiously, and put her arms around his neck. “Don’t do it again.”

“I’ll try,” he said, enveloping her in broad arms.

“You’re silly sometimes.”

“I know.”

Mrs Delver sighed. “All right, lass, you’ve seen ‘im. Get back here and finish up.”

Myrtle released him and smiled. “Can we play when I’m done with the dishes?”

“If you like,” he said. “Let me have my dinner and a pipe first.”

“Be quick.”

Mrs Delver glanced at Rob as Myrtle returned to the growing pile of dry dishes. “I wish I had that sort of power over you.”

Meg approached her. “Jonson’s out smoking with Dad, ain’t he?” she said in a hushed voice.

“Should think so.”

She nodded and left the kitchen. Rob picked at his dinner, painfully conscious that he was sat doing nothing while his mother and sisters worked. What sort of punishment was that? He realised his mother was watching him, trying not to be noticed. Eventually she looked at the lasses and said, “Why don’t you two go and check for any cups that might’ve been left out?”

Myrtle looked confusedly at her, “But, Mum, I already—”

“Come on,” Clover said, taking her by the arm and leading her from the room.

“But I already—”

“No, you didn’t.”

Mrs Delver watched as Clover shut the door behind them and then slung her dishrag over the draining board. Rob tensed as she sat opposite him. “Robby,” she said gently, “can I ask about the Took lass or…?”

Rob groaned. “It’s not anything, Mum. Only seen her a couple of times.”

“Yes?” Mrs Delver smiled sympathetically. “As friends?”

He squirmed. “Not sure yet.”

“Are you going to keep seeing her?”

He groaned and buried his head in his hands. “Don’t know, Mum.”

“All right, all right. I’m sorry, lad.” There was the scrape of a chair and the patter of feet. Then there were arms around his neck. He offered no resistance, instead leaning into the hug. “I won’t ask no more questions,” she said. “I’m worried for you, that’s all.”

Rob rested the side of his head against her, comfort filling up the gap left by the dissipated anger. “Sorry, Mum.”

One of his mother’s hands started to stroke his hair. “I don’t want her whisking my little lad off into the blue.”

He leaned out of her arms and turned his head to look at her. He wasn’t able to keep a laughing smile off his face.

“Yes, all right,” she said, giving him a light slap on the shoulder. “You may be a foot taller than me and built like an ale-house, but you’re still my babe.” She absentmindedly smoothed down his wayward hair as she smiled fondly at him. “You can get back to your dinner now.”

“Cheers.” He bent over his plate again as his mother returned to the sink.

The lasses returned a minute later, not having found any cups. When he finished Rob handed his mother his plate and mumbled his thanks. In the hallway he could hear Meg and Jonson’s raised voices in the parlour. He shuffled guiltily to the front doorstep, where Jack and their father were sat side by side, smoking.

Mr Delver watched Rob from the corner of his eye as he settled himself on the end. “All right, whelp?”

“Yes, sir,” he said, taking out his tobacco pouch and lighting up his pipe.

Jack tipped the dregs of his leaf out of the bowl and onto the ground. “I’ll head in now. It’s chilly.” Inside, he hesitated by the parlour door, listening to the argument inside.

“It’s my bloody business, and I don’t want you, Rob or anyone else getting hurt on account of it.”

“You’ve never had no issues with meddling in _our_ business. Besides, I’m Dad’s heir—”

“Heir to _what?”_

“I— That ain’t the point. The point is it’s up to me to set it right when one of us gets wronged.”

_“I’m older than you.”_

“Not by much.”

“Well, if you’re so old and wise you should have known that asking Rob to get involved was a stupid thing to do. It’ll kill Mum if he falls into all that again.”

“You’re getting stirred up over nothing.”

The door opened and Jonson walked out, pushing past Jack to leave through the front door. Meg appeared in the doorway a second later. “It’s not nothing!”

Jack looked at her with disinterest. “It’s a little bit nothing.”

Meg jumped at the sound of his voice; she hadn’t properly registered his presence. But now she saw him she smiled brightly. “I’ve been meaning to have a word with you.”

He grimaced. “Have you?”

She continued smiling, unperturbed. “Jack. Kind Jack. Good Jack. Generous Jack.”

“I ain’t none of them things and you know it.”

Her face fell. “Yes, you are.”

He laughed shortly. “You’re the only one what believes that. What’re you after, talking like that?”

“You’re friends with Nick Hobble, aren’t you?”

Jack looked away and shrugged uncomfortably. “Aye.”

“Think you could get him to go to my birthday?”

He raised his eyebrows at this. “I thought you weren’t having a party. You’ve been dreading coming of age.”

Meg attempted a smile and brushed some of the dirt off Jack’s waistcoat. “I’m allowed to change my mind. It’s not anything proper, just going down the _Dragon_. I asked him myself but he din’t seem too keen.”

“Then I don’t think nothing I say’ll make any difference.”

“Just try. Please?” She looked at him earnestly, but not pleadingly. She didn’t want him to feel he would be upsetting her if he refused.

Jack tilted his head up and groaned. “Fine. I’ll mention it, but I don’t make no promises.”

Rob could hear Meg’s squealing laughter from where he sat on the step. Neither he nor Mr Delver had said anything since Jack had gone in. He get the vague sense that Jack had gone in specifically to leave himself and their father alone. Neighbours passed by the house in an irregular stream, every one of them nodding a greeting.

“Sorry, Dad,” Rob said.

Mr Delver shrugged. “No lasting damage, though you gave Martin a bit of a fright. I don’t think he remembers too well the days you used to come home with your face all bloodied. Not that any of us like to remember.” He studied Rob’s expression and must have seen the discomfort there. “But it weren’t just that you was talking about, was it?”

“No.”

“What, then?”

Rob shrugged. “The Took lass. I know you don’t like the uppers…” He shrunk into himself, and his speech faded to a mumble.

“Rob,” Mr Delver said wearily, removing the pipe from his mouth. “I’d rather you displease me on occasion than never think for yourself.”

Rob looked down. “Then I don’t reckon you’ll like what I’ve got to say next.”

“Say it and you’ll find out.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“With what?”

Rob drew from his pipe again. “Took lass.”

“What about her?”

“Do I keep seeing her or not?”

“Ain’t up to me, lad,” Mr Delver said and blew out a delicate stream of smoke.

“But if it was you?”

“Then I’d abandon her to marry your mother.”

“But what if—”

“Look.” Mr Delver removed his pipe from his mouth. “If you want advice, here’s what I have to give. First: don’t go in with the idea that you could marry into money. It won’t happen.” Rob opened his mouth, but Mr Delver waved him into silence. “I know it’s early days, and you’re young, but you’ll end up thinking about her dower eventually. I’m telling you now, you won’t see none of it. The only way her parents’d let her marry the likes of you is if you get her in trouble, and we don’t want that, now, do we?” He cast a meaningful glance at Rob, who hunched down further to hide his warm face.

“No, Dad.”

“Good.” He drew and blew out another stream of smoke. “Which leads nicely to this second point. This lass’ll have a father, uncles, and cousins, and none of them’ll take kindly to you. So, for goodness sake, be careful.” He sighed and scratched his nose. “See, posh folk do things different. They ask for permission, formal like. But you can’t do that ‘cus no matter what, they’ll say ‘no’. So they catch you with her and it’ll make the time Ripon Westcott found you with his sister look civil.”

“But that ain’t fair,” Rob said.

“I know it ain’t, lad,” Mr Delver said hotly, “but that’s life. Third: don’t let it get to you. ‘Good breeding’ is just a posh way of saying ‘very damn lucky’. Take Mr Boffin’s sons—” Mr Delver hesitated when one of their neighbours walked past the hole. “As fine a pair of lads as a Hobbit could meet,” he said, much louder than was necessary. When the neighbour had passed he lowered his voice again. “But they have less sense between ‘em than any one of my brood.”

Rob smiled. “Even Jonson?”

“Oh, I reckon so. Only just, mind,” Mr Delver said, replacing his pipe in his mouth. “So don’t go thinking you ain’t worthy. It’s just as like she’s unworthy of you.”

Rob sat silently for a moment. “But Dad,” he said, “should I?”

Mr Delver removed his pipe again. “Have you not been listening to me?”

“I have, Dad, I have. But I just—”

“You’re twenty-seven, son, I can’t be making all your decisions for you.” He saw Rob’s dejected expression and added, more kindly, “Depends whether you think the good outweighs the bad.”

Rob scratched his head. “Don’t know about that.”

They stayed silent for a while, Rob looking pensively down at the ground. His father sighed. “I know that look. Out with it.”

Rob knocked his pipe out onto the ground, and ground the ashes in with his foot. “I don’t mean no offence by this, Dad.”

“By what?”

“I’m… I’m sort of just Jon Delver’s third son.”

His father frowned in gruff incomprehension. “That’d be because you are my third son.”

“I know. But Jonson’s got his charm, and Jack’s sharp. I’m just myself.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

“I know. I don’t brood over it or nothing. I used to be the one with the temper, an’ that was worse.” He looked mournfully at is hands. Too large. Always too large. He hated it when people were afraid of him. “But when Miss Took listens to me talk it’s like she thinks I’m more than myself. Like I’m something properly special.”

Mr Delver’s initial thought was that Miss Took would probably behave that way with any relatively good-looking working Hobbit, seeing as she’d probably never spoken to many before, and Rob was a nice novelty compared to the lads she was used to associating with. But considering what Rob had just told him about the way he saw himself, he decided this probably wasn’t the best time.

“Well, if you reckon that’s worth all the hassle then go for it, lad,” he said. “Have fun, do whatever it is tweens do these days, but please take care. I don’t want the Tooks coming after you.”

The door squeaked open and Myrtle walked through. She walked up behind Rob, leaning her chin on his head and hanging her arms limply over his shoulders.

“Hello,” he said.

“Rob, you said you’d play with me,” she whined.

“I did,” Rob said, heaving himself up. “Come on, then.” Myrtle took his hand to lead him inside, forcing him to walk with a stoop. All in all, he decided he quite liked being the little’uns’ favourite.

* * *

Sango had been attempting to read for the past half-hour. He could just about manage, but it was a slog, even with books that actually caught his interest. He was sat dangerously close to the candle on the end table, and still it was hard to make out the words. He shifted even closer. The plan was for him to spend the evening with Lavender at the _Green Dragon_. He had hoped to walk with her that afternoon, but a friend of hers had been ill and she had wanted to spend the afternoon with her instead. There was a chill as the door opened, and Rico stepped into the room, smelling of ponies. “Hullo, Rowley. Having a scholarly day, are you?”

“Close the door, it’s freezing,” Sango said.

Rico gave a frustrated sigh and closed the door with a slam.

“Thank you,” Sango said with false brightness. “How are the Grubbs?”

“Monno was a bore, as usual,” Rico said, removing his riding gloves. “We saw your lady on the way back,” he said, giving one of Sango’s legs a light kick.

“Lavender?”

“Who?”

“My young lady,” Sango said, looking up at him. “We started courting last week.”

“Oh. Poor lass.”

Sango smiled humourlessly at him. “If you weren’t referring to Lavender then…?”

“Miss Tiger Lily. She was walking with a farm lad.” Rico sat down. There was something Sango didn’t like about the way his brother was smiling.

“They met at harvest. When she was helping me,” Sango cast a disapproving look at his brother.

“Oh, will you let that go?” Rico said, slumping down in the armchair. “It was a week ago.”

“I don’t care, you left me alone to cope with everything, and you knew—”

“Rather strange, though,” Rico said. “To walk with a working-hobbit. A Took custom?”

“I think not. She’s soft-hearted, that’s all. He was nice to her.”

A scheming smile spread across Rico’s face like a disease. “She never struck me as the type.”

Sango sensed he was falling into a trap of some kind, but still said, “The type for what?”

“For courting a low-born lad, with all the implications.”

“No!” Sango said indignantly. “She wouldn’t be so silly, and she’s certainly not that sort of lady.” He practically spat the word ‘sort’.

“As you say.” Rico grinned, sitting back again and getting out his pipe ~~~~

Sango sat in silent contemplation for a moment. Matters of reputation were important, especially for a lass. He glanced up at Rico and cleared his throat. “You know… If I were to find that you’ve been spreading gossip, I might be inclined to tell Mr Grubb about it. I think he would like to know if a rumourmonger were courting his sister.”

Rico leaned back in his chair, regarding Sango. “I see,” he said.

Sango did his best to resume his reading, but found it even more difficult than before. Even with his conviction that Tiger Lily wasn’t that sort, he wasn’t quite at ease. Perhaps he would have a word with her, just to make sure she wouldn’t be going down that particular path with Master Rob. He shivered as someone else opened the door.

“So this is where you’re hiding yourselves,” Mr Boffin said, settling down on the settee beside Sango. He looked from one son to the other. “I would have liked for at least one of you to help me hand out the wages.”

“I was out with Abbie,” Rico said.

“I was out with Tiger Lily,” Sango said.

Their father sighed. “You know… charming as lasses are, they won’t put money in your coffers. If you want to be able to support a wife, you’re going to have to start sacrificing your pleasure time to help me here.”

Sango picked at the corner of his current page. “I ran things at harvest.”

“That was a week ago, and you’ve done next to nothing since.” His hands started fidgeting. “I’m glad I managed to catch you both together, actually. You see, there’s been a development. You recall your cousin Lotho…”


	10. Displacement

Tiger Lily’s fingers passed clumsily over the piano keys. She glanced up at the music sheet every few seconds.

“A good musician only needs sheet music as a fail-safe,” Opal said from where she lounged on a settee.

Tiger Lily ignored her, perspiration rising on her brow. She struck the wrong chord. “Drat!”

“My turn.”

Tiger Lily rose from the piano stool and switched places with her cousin. Opal shifted through the sheets of music before settling on a lively jig, much faster than the old dirge Tiger Lily had been attempting.

“You need to relax more,” Opal said, her hands moving easily along the keys. “You’ve been on edge all evening. Worse than Father since we ran out of pipe-weed.”

“I’ll practice more,” Tiger Lily said, lying on her back. “Now that I have more time to spare.”

“Oh, that’s it, is it?” Opal abandoned the chords, and proceeded to play the melody one-handed so she could turn to face her cousin.

“Now you’re just showing off,” Tiger Lily said.

“You can’t even last one week without hunting?”

“I can. I’ll try.”

Opal rolled her eyes upward and returned both hands to the piano. “You’re mad,” she said. “Completely mad.”

“Yes, I think I probably am,” Tiger Lily said with a sigh. It didn’t help that the meeting with Rob was still playing on her mind. Being shouted at wasn’t nice, even if she had deserved it and he had apologised afterwards. And he had told her she didn’t deserve it, and he must know better than her. Interesting…

_But what on earth was I thinking getting him to talk about crop rotation of all things?_ _Crop. Rotation._ She covered her face with her hands as embarrassment washed over her. _What must he think of me?_

“How’s Sango?” Opal said, changing the subject. “I would ask after other friends if you had them.”

Tiger Lily placed her hands on her stomach and did her best to shrug off the embarrassment. “In high spirits. He’s courting.”

“Who?”

“Lavender Hobble. One of the wheelwright’s daughters.”

Opal tilted her head to one side as she thought. “I think I know them. Is Lavender the pretty one or the busty one?”

Tiger Lily was glad Opal couldn’t see her face. “The… second one. I think.”

Opal laughed to herself. “I wonder how many other lads have fallen for her charms.” She looked up at the ceiling. “I am surprised at Sango, though. He’s always seemed so childlike. Still, I suppose he is a grown lad, and like all lads he must be a slave to his nature.”

“You talk of lads like they’re another race.” She considered Opal’s words and rolled onto her side so she could see her cousin. “What sort of nature?”

Opal watched her from the corner of her eye. “You’re so frustrating sometimes. I’m talking about carnal desires. Do you need me to explain what that means?”

Tiger Lily flushed. “No.” She rolled to lie on her back again, looking firmly at the ceiling. “Not all lads are like that though, surely?”

“All,” Opal said firmly.

Tiger Lily scowled. “Well, what about—” She faltered.

“What about what?” Opal said.

“Nothing.” She had been going to say, ‘What about Buffo?’ but couldn’t quite bring herself to be so cruel.

“A very odd match. She’s so far beneath him,” Opal said, putting the conversation back on topic. She finished playing and twisted around on the stool to face Tiger Lily directly, her hands placed daintily on her knees. “Still, I suppose they are both in trade. Your turn now.”

Tiger Lily and Opal both rose from their respective seats to switch places. “Opal,” Tiger Lily said in her sweetest tone.

Opal, obviously sensing that this would be followed by a request, answered with an equally saccharine, “Yes?”

“When you go to Michel Delving could you get me some lip wax? And maybe carmine dye?”

Opal sat down, and tilted her head to one side. “I thought you weren’t allowed face paints.”

“I’m not. Technically. But Mother doesn’t necessarily need to know about this.”

Opal smirked. “Well, it’s taken you longer than most, but you’ve finally turned into a tweenager. Your parents must be very proud.”

“I’d rather they weren’t aware of it.”

At that moment Bandobold burst into the room and threw himself on a free settee with a gust of cool air.

“You’re back then,” Opal said. “Did you have a good hunting trip?”

“I got a buck,” he said, stretching himself out. His breeches were smeared with mud.

“Good for you. I think your mother would prefer if you didn’t get mud on the furniture.”

“Hello, you two,” Mr Took said, following in after his son. He was slightly out of breath from the walk back. “How are the little musicians?”

“Did you get many rabbits, Father?” Tiger Lily said before Opal had a chance to answer.

“Enough,” he said, going to sit beside Bandobold. “There were so many I don’t know how the Boffins managed to leave them unchecked for so long.” He sniffed. “I think being out has left me with a bit of a chill, though. And I’d only just gotten over the last one. Did you tell them about your buck, Bully?”

“Yes, obviously.”

Mr Took grinned at Tiger Lily as he drew an envelope out of his pocket. “It was at least thirty paces away. I didn’t think he’d get it, I certainly wouldn’t have at his age.” He smiled at Bandobold. “I keep on meaning to start on a new bow for you—you’re growing so quickly. But I keep on forgetting.”

Tiger Lily shifted on the piano stool. “Well, maybe I could—” She caught sight of Opal’s expression and shut her mouth. No matter what, she wouldn’t give Opal the satisfaction. “Never mind.”

“Ah, well,” Mr Took said, squinting down at the envelope. “Now this is odd. A maid gave me this on the way in, said it came by the Quick Post.”

“Why is that odd?” Bandobold said.

“It’s the Thain’s seal, you see,” he said, showing the ornate ‘T’ to his son. “I don’t remember the last time he wrote to me. I think it was probably when you were born, little fellow. But that was old Ferumbras, of course.” He broke the seal and unfolded the paper, the three young Hobbits watching silently as he slowly paled. “Oh dear.”

“What?” Bandobold said.

He got to his feet, not taking his eyes off the paper.

“Uncle Aferbold, what’s wrong?” Opal said.

“It’s, um… It’s just—” He left the room, not giving them a second glance.

Bandobold sat up, looking from his sister to his cousin. “What’s happening?”

Tiger Lily and Opal exchanged glances. Tiger Lily shook her head, not knowing what else to say or do.

Opal drew in a long breath and stood from her seat. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

Tiger Lily and Bandobold crept behind her as they stepped out into the corridor. Their parents were there, talking in urgent voices. The letter had changed into their mother’s hands, and she was looking at the contents with bewilderment. “But what possessed them—”

“I don’t know. The whys aren’t of much concern at the moment,” Mr Took said, fiddling with the cuff of his jacket anxiously. “What do I do?”

“Can I help?” Opal said.

Mr and Mrs Took turned their heads. Tiger Lily was struck by her father’s expression.

“I think you’d best go home,” Mrs Took said. “Your mother will be in need of you.” Her eyes turned to her own children. “You two wait in the drawing room. I’ll explain everything to you later. Come along, dear.” She placed a gentle hand on Mr Took’s back and led him further into the smial.

The three young Tooks stayed where they were; unwilling to return to the drawing room without explanations. There was a thump as someone came in through the front door. A moment later Uncle Hortenbold was treading purposefully up the corridor. There was a letter in his hand.

Opal plucked at his sleeve as he went past. “Father—”

“Not now, Opal,” he said, brushing past them. “Aferbold!”

Tiger Lily took Bandobold’s forearm and led him back into the drawing room. “Come on.”

“But I want to—”

“Mother said to wait.” She noticed Opal still standing in the doorway, looking a little lost. “Aren’t you going to go home?”

Opal bit her lip and glanced in the direction of the front door. “I suppose I should. Will you two be all right by yourselves?”

“Don’t worry about us.”

Opal squeezed her arm and lightly touched Bandobold’s head before leaving, closing the door behind her. Tiger Lily and Bandobold waited in silence, listening to the general bustle going on outside. The clock ticked down.

“I want someone to tell me what’s going on,” Bandobold whined. He lay limply on a settee.

“We can’t always get what we want,” Tiger Lily said, but she was thinking the same thing.

“I hate being left behind.”

“Me too.”

“No, you don’t,” Bandobold said, sitting up. “You _like_ it. You always come home early from parties, and you don’t even go hunting anymore.”

Tiger Lily couldn’t reply to that. The bustle outside seemed to fade, and there was only silence. She rose to her feet and stepped out into the corridor.

“Mother said to wait!” Bandobold said.

“I’m just going to the privy,” she said. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

She stepped as lightly as she could over the floorboards, even holding her skirts to silence her petticoats. This was unnecessary, but it gave her a thrill. Like hunting. She stopped outside her father’s study. There were voices inside. She pressed her ear to the door.

“Can’t you come? Please?” her father said.

“I won’t be of any use to them.” This was Uncle Hortenbold’s voice.

“I’m sure you could find some way of helping,” her father said uncertainly.

“I’m ninety-two and gout-ridden. I cannot and will not run about after—”

There was a cough behind her. She jumped back from the door, and spun around to see the unamused face of the head maid. “I won’t tell your parents if you return to the drawing room this instant.”

Tiger Lily mumbled her apology and scurried back the way she’d come. She didn’t look at Bandobold as she re-entered the drawing room and sat down on a settee.

“That was quick,” Bandobold said.

“Be quiet.”

The smial was almost perfectly silent. On the occasion that someone would walk past the door Tiger Lily would raise her head in hopeful expectation that someone would come in and tell them everything was all right. But no one did. She was more hopeful when she heard Uncle Hortenbold approaching, but he walked past without stopping. Another Hobbit followed, and this one did open the door.

Tiger Lily stood as her mother entered the room, clutching the letter in her hands. “Children, I’m afraid we’ve had some bad news.”

“What news?” Tiger Lily said.

“Sit down, dear.”

She obeyed, not turning her face from her mother, who sat down as well. She cleared her throat as she picked at the corner of the letter. “It seems that the Thain’s son and the Master’s son went into the Old Forest last Monday… and neither of them have been seen since.”

No one said anything.

Tiger Lily had never spoken to the Thain’s son, and could only remember which of her innumerable cousins he was from seeing him stood next to his mother and sisters at Paladin’s accession ceremony. If she had ever seen or spoken to the Master’s son, she had no idea.

Even so, it made her uneasy to think of two of her kin being gone, just like that. _Gone where, though?_

“If he’s been missing since Monday why have they only just sent word?” Bandobold said.

“I don’t know, dear,” Mrs Took said, looking at the letter. “It doesn’t say. But the Thain is summoning as many Tooks as he can to Buckland to help in finding his son and nephew, so Father is going to have to go away for a little while.”

“Are we not going with him?” Tiger Lily said.

Mrs Took smiled kindly. “We wouldn’t be of any use, and the space at Brandy Hall is limited. Uncle Hortenbold isn’t going either, he’s not hale.”

“When will Father be coming home?”

“We don’t know yet. Hopefully they’ll find Master Peregrin and Mr Brandybuck soon, but if not…” She cast her eyes back down at the letter and said no more.

“What can I do?” Tiger Lily said, clasping her skirts. “I want to help.”

“Dinner should be ready soon. We’ll join you once we’ve finished the preparations.” Mrs Took got stood and gently took Tiger Lily’s jaw in her hand. “You just put on your best smile for Father.” She released her daughter and departed back into the corridor. “He might be in need of it.”

But at dinner Mr Took seemed to only be half there, and kept his head bowed. He had never travelled further from home than Longbottom. For all his talk of settling in Tookland, he would only visit it grudgingly out of familial duty. Hallowed and bursting with history as it was, it wasn’t home. When they did go there, they always stayed at the _Dozy Mole_ so that he could spend as little time in the Great Smials as possible, as he found them too loud and crowded. An uncomfortable silence hung over the table.

“How were your lessons today, dear?” Mrs Took said, setting her cutlery down and looking at Bandobold.

“Awfully boring. Mr Booker had me listing all the Thains and the years they reigned, going right back to—” He was interrupted by a sharp cough from his mother, who gave a subtle shake of the head to stop him from continuing.

Mr Took’s breath hitched and he continued to pick at his food, which was all but untouched, despite them having been sat for more than ten minutes.

“Is the food not to your liking, Father?” Tiger Lily said, smiling as well as she could. “Would you like us to ask Cook to make something else up for you?”

He finally turned his pale face to her, but he didn’t seem to see her, his expression remaining vacant. It was only then that it occurred to Tiger Lily how being pulled out of the Shire at such short notice, and without the company of anyone he knew, must be affecting him. He blinked at her, and his brow creased as he appeared to return from whatever realm he had been wandering in in his head.

“I think I will retire, Peony,” he said wearily, rising to his feet. “Goodnight, children,” he said, not looking back as he left the room.

“Aferbold,” their mother called, and pursued him into the corridor.

Tiger Lily sighed and buried her face in her hands as the pressures of being in her parents’ presence lifted from her shoulders. This was horrible. Otherworldly.

“I wish I could go with Father,” Bandobold said. “I’d like to see Buckland and I’m sure I could help with finding Cousin Peregrin and Cousin Meriadoc.”

“Yes, I’m sure you could,” Tiger Lily said. She wasn’t in the mood for this.

She looked up as their mother re-entered the room “Elbows off the table, please,” she said. Tiger Lily did as she was told as Mrs Took returned to her place at the table. “Father shan’t be returning to dinner. He has decided to retire early ahead of the journey tomorrow. I suggest we follow his example, so we can see him off properly.”

That night Tiger Lily had an odd, repeating dream in which her father left for Buckland again and again and again. She awoke early and disorientated, when a maid knocked on the door to tell her that Mrs Took needed her to ready herself to see her father off. The sun wasn’t quite up yet, and Tiger Lily dawdled over getting out of bed. She didn’t want to face the day. Eventually, though, she was compelled to rise and dress herself, and a maid dressed her hair into her customary low bunches. The smial itself was deserted, with no sign of her family. It felt more like a dream than the dreams had done. Eventually she followed the increasingly chilled air to the front of the smial, where her mother was with the groom, making sure the carriage was ready. Bandobold was watching their mother blearily next to Opal and her parents, who were all stood in a little cluster on the lawn. Uncle Hortenbold fixed her with an icy stare when he noticed her.

“Finally decided to put in an appearance, have you?”

She blinked confusedly at him. “Yes, uncle. Sorry, uncle.” She looked around and it occurred to her that there was rather a significant person missing from the scene. “Where’s Father?”

“Still sulking in the drawing room, I should imagine,” Uncle Hortenbold said, and drew out his pocket watch. “He ought to get a move on, really, the plan was for him to be off by half-past. Go and fetch him, would you?”

She found her father, as Uncle Hortenbold had said, stood alone in the drawing room, wearing his hat and travelling cloak. He was looking around distractedly, as though he had never been in that room before.

“Can I help you, Father?” she said from the doorway.

He turned around and looked at her with far away eyes. He blinked, and some semblance of focus returned to his gaze. “I’m not sure. I keep on imagining I’ve left something behind, but I can’t think what.”

She swallowed against the lump rising in her throat. “Uncle Hortenbold says it’s nearly time to go.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.” He didn’t seem in a hurry to act on it.

She fidgeted, digging her nails into the back of her hand. “Could I hug you?”

“I suppose, given the circumstances—”

Tiger Lily didn’t wait for the sentence to end before she pulled him into a clinging hug. She felt him pat her back uncertainly.

“Oh dear. I suppose Bandobold and your mother will want hugs as well, won’t they?”

She smiled sadly. “I’m afraid they might.” She let go when Uncle Hortenbold’s voice could be heard echoing down the corridor.

“I suppose this is it, then,” Mr Took said, touching the doorframe as he left the room.

Tiger Lily followed him out into the front garden, where Mrs Took approached him. “There you are. Everything’s packed and loaded. Try not to exhaust the ponies by pushing them too hard, they’ll need to take you to Whitfurrow if the _Floating Log_ is full.”

“I don’t think that will be a problem,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t want to go, Peony,”

“Oh!” She threw her arms around his shoulders and sniffed. “I know. But we’ll be waiting right here for you when you return, whenever that will be.” She let go and placed a hand on his face. “Remember to write to us, so we know you’ve arrived safely.”

“I will,” he timidly took her hands and kissed them, making Mrs Took’s eyes water.

This returned the lump to Tiger Lily’s throat. It was so unusual to see her mother treat her father with anything other than mild frustration.

Her father got stiffly down onto his knees so he could speak to Bandobold eye-to-eye. “I suppose you’ll be master of the smial while I’m away. You will be good for your mother, won’t you?”

“Father, I want to go with you,” he said. “I want to go on an adventure in the Old Forest.”

Mr Took took his son in his arms and smiled. “I think you’d do a better job than me. If only we could trade places.”

He got back up to his feet with a grunt. “I’ll miss you dreadfully,” he said, and tentatively ruffled his son’s hair. Tiger Lily clasped her hands tightly together as her father approached her. “I shan’t hug you again,” he said, smiling fondly at her. “Try not to worry. And be thankful that your adventures are little.”

Tiger Lily closed her eyes and pursed her lips to stop herself from crying. She nodded but couldn’t bring herself to say anything, and only whimpered. She felt her father lightly touch her arm. “You’ll be all right.” Then there was the sound of his soft tread as he walked away. When she opened her eyes again he was stood in front of Uncle Hortenbold.

“Well, brother,” Uncle Hortenbold said, tugging at Mr Took’s cloak to straighten it out. “Look after yourself. Send my regards to the Thain. Do recommend us to him.”

Mr Took looked down at the ground and nodded earnestly as he replied, “Yes, yes, I will.” Uncle Hortenbold, more than anyone, had the ability to turn him back into a little boy. “You will take care of Peony and the children, won’t you, if they are in need?”

“Yes, yes,” he said dismissively. “Go on, you’ll be late.”

Mr Took moved away, stopping to say goodbye to Aunt Mertensia and Opal, who offered their own words of encouragement. Finally, he made his way to the carriage, where his wife was waiting for him. They joined hands, exchanged some whispered words, and kissed. Then he looked back at the others gathered on the lawn. “I’ll see you all again… at some point.” He stepped up into the carriage, letting go of Mrs Took’s hand as the groom shut the door. “Goodbye,” he said lamely.

He was answered by a little chorus of ‘goodbyes’. The coach-hobbit brought the ponies to a trot, and he was off. Tiger Lily took stiff steps to the fence to watch the carriage trundling down the road. And then he was gone.

Mrs Took drew a handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it to her mouth, whimpering.

“Oh, my dear,” Aunt Mertensia said, going and putting her arms around her shoulders. “Why don’t we go inside and have some tea?”

“Come along, Bully,” Uncle Hortenbold said, putting a gentle hand on the lad’s back to lead him indoors. He glanced back at the lasses. “Are you two coming in?”

“In a moment, Father,” Opal said. He nodded and took Bandobold inside as Opal approached Tiger Lily. “Are you all right?”

Tiger Lily frowned. It had all happened so suddenly. She couldn’t make sense of it. “He’s going to hate Brandy Hall,” she said.

“You don’t know that.”

“He hates the Great Smials, so he’ll certainly hate the Hall.” She needed assurance, but found none inside herself. “We’ll see him again soon, won’t we?”

Opal looked askance at her. “Yes.”

Tiger Lily nodded, but didn’t look away from the road. “You’ve met the Thain’s son, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

She inhaled deeply. “What’s he like?”

Opal shook her head and toyed with her necklace. “Nothing extraordinary. Agreeable, good-humoured… a little impetuous. I liked him.”

Tiger Lily nodded again, but still couldn’t take her eyes off from the road.

“Are you two all right out here?” Aunt Mertensia said, putting her head around the front door. “Your mother would like you to join us inside.”

Without even thinking Tiger Lily turned around and walked back to the smial, Opal following behind. In the drawing room the elder Hobbits chatted about the various goings on around the Shire (“Poor Hedera’s getting a little frantic now.” “Well of course she is, that’s only to be expected. Still, I suppose they will make her welcome in the Maid’s Quarters, if it comes to that.”) while Bandobold slowly drifted off to sleep in an armchair. The chat seemed to perk Mrs Took up, but Tiger Lily only felt herself slipping further into her melancholy. Even with the addition of Opal and her parents, the drawing room seemed cavernous without her father. She knew it was silly. That even if he was still there he would just be in his study as usual. _But as least I’d know he was there_ , she thought.

“Excuse me,” she said, rising to her feet and leaving the room.

Even though it had been less than a week since she’d tidied her father’s study, he had already managed to return it to a state of disarray, like a mouse rebuilding its nest that had been destroyed by the plough. She brushed her fingertips over the new pieces of paper that littered the desk. Everything here was evidence of his thought process. His own unique imprint. She sat down on his chair, curling up and hugging her knees as she took in the comforting smell of old books that she had associated with her father since childhood. She had been drifting off to sleep when the door opened.

“There you are,” Opal said. “We were wondering where you’d gone. Sango’s here to see you.”

Tiger Lily rose as soon as she heard Sango’s name and immediately hurried past Opal into the hallway. She found him stood in the corridor in conversation with her mother.

“It was all very sudden,” her mother said.

“Gosh, I’m sorry you’ve had to go through all of that.” And she could tell by his face he was sorry. It wasn’t said out of any sense of duty or courtesy, but out of a genuine concern for them. “You know, if there’s ever anything I can do…”

“Rowley,” she said, quickening her pace.

He turned his head when he heard her voice. “Your mother was just telling me about what’s happened.”

She threw herself into his arms, hugging him tightly about the shoulders. “I’m so frightened,” she said into his shoulder.

Mrs Took slipped back into the drawing room, closing the door quietly.

Sango gently loosened his grip to look her in the eye, and she took the cue to do the same. “Do you know why they went?”

She sniffed and folded her arms. “No, and I don’t care to either. Silly thing to do.”

He raised his eyebrows. “It must be bad if you’re not at all curious about it.”

Something occurred to Tiger Lily and she fixed Sango with a questioning look. “Why are you here?”

The hurt was visible on his face. “What sort of ‘thank you’ is that? How many times have I visited you at home over the years?”

“But it’s so early—you’re never usually awake before nine.” She widened her eyes as a million awful possibilities crossed her mind, and gripped his coat sleeve. “Has something happened?”

An expression of discomfort crossed his face. “No. Well, yes. Nothing all that awful. Father’s sold the farm.” His mouth twisted in distaste. “To Cousin Lotho.”

Tiger Lily drew her eyebrows together. “And the house with it?”

“Well, yes…” He looked at her disbelievingly. “How do you think land works?”

She scowled and crossed her arms. “Well, it’s not the sort of thing ladies should get involved with. Where will you all go?” A horrible thought crossed her mind. “Not the Yale!”

“No, Father said he’d look for somewhere in Overhill. Uncle Beldo lives there.”

“Good.” Tiger Lily looked down. Overhill was much closer than the Yale, but it was still so much further away than they were now. “That’s still more than five miles,” she said.

“I know.” He smiled, but his heart wasn’t in it. “Still, imagine all the walking we’ll get to do.”

She groaned and leaned her head against his chest. “Why do you always have to try and see the bright side? Can’t we just be miserable sometimes?”

“Who wants that? If you were left to your own devices you’d spend all your time stewing in your own melancholy.”

She wrapped her arms around his chest, hiding her face in his collarbone. “Mmph.”

He sighed and returned the embrace. “I know sometimes it’s easier to stew, but it’s not good for you.”

“ _Mmph!_ ”

“That’s not a very compelling argument.”

The door to the drawing room opened and Uncle Hortenbold stood over them. Tiger Lily turned her face towards him, keeping her head on Sango’s shoulder.

“Mr Took,” Sango said, turning his head. “I was so sorry to hear of your brother.”

“I’m sure.”

Though Tiger Lily could only half-see him from behind Sango’s neck, she could tell her uncle wasn’t happy. Sango was still completely at ease, his thumb still running up and down her back, as though he were oblivious to the look Uncle Hortenbold was giving them. She willed him to let go, but couldn’t summon the strength to push him away herself.

Uncle Hortenbold stood aside in the doorway. “Would you care to join us, Master Boffin?”

“Actually, Mr Took, I was hoping we might take a stroll, if you could lend us Opal,” Sango said.

“Opal can be spared, though you had better ask her yourself. Unhand my niece, if you would be so kind.”

“Certainly.” Sango put his hands in his pockets and walked through to the drawing room with his usual breezy gate.

Tiger Lily stayed where she was and wilted under Uncle Hortenbold’s stern gaze. He stayed silent, having apparently decided that the expression on his face conveyed his feelings sufficiently enough. “I am glad you’ve started taking a companion,” he said gruffly.

Tiger Lily cast her eyes down. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“Come on then,” Opal said as Sango followed her into the corridor. “Let’s set out.”

Tiger Lily took her cloak from the coat stand and followed them out, but even in the outdoors couldn’t be rid of the sinking feeling of dread. Ahead of her lay a life without her father. A life without Sango.

This was not a good day.


	11. Give and Take

It was with mild distress that Tiger Lily watched another carriage being loaded up—the second in one week. That was two more than was usual.

“You needn’t look so resentful,” Uncle Hortenbold said out of the corner off his mouth.

She glared up at him. “I am not resentful.”

“You could sour milk with those eyes.”

She turned her face towards the carriage again, scowling and gripping her skirts. The morning was too cold. She had been surprised when she learned Opal and Aunt Mertensia were still going to Michel Delving with Buffo. She had assumed that they wouldn’t be, with three of their kin lost in the wild. Opal had told her very bluntly that there was nothing they could do, so they might as well go. None of which Tiger Lily could argue with. Buffo was helping Opal into the carriage. She folded her arms and scowled harder.

“I think that’s everything,” Aunt Mertensia said, emerging from the smial in her travelling coat and hat. “You’ll manage without us, won’t you?”

“I’ll cope but I won’t thrive,” Uncle Hortenbold said and gave her a peck on the cheek.

Aunt Mertensia laughed and looked over at Tiger Lily’s mother. “Make sure he doesn’t become a recluse.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Are you ready then, Mistress Mertensia?” Buffo said, approaching the Tooks with his usual air of pompous authority.

“I think so, Buffo.”

He offered his arm to her, which she accepted.

“Look after my lasses, won’t you, Bunce?” Uncle Hortenbold said.

“I wouldn’t consider myself a gentlehobbit if I didn’t. Farewell, Mistress Peony. Miss Tiger Lily.”

“I hope you have a nice time,” Tiger Lily’s mother said.

Tiger Lily feigned a smile and said nothing.

“We’ll see you in a fortnight, darling,” Aunt Mertensia said as Buffo helped her step up into the carriage.

Uncle Hortenbold sighed as the carriage rattled off down the lane. “I remember this feeling. Bachelorhood.”

“Don’t talk like that. I’ll not suffer being called a spinster just because Aferbold’s out of Bywater. Come along, children,” Mrs Took said. “Mr Booker will be arriving soon. You’re free to come to our smial this evening if you’re feeling lonely, Hortenbold.”

“I’ll consider it.”

Tiger Lily started to follow her mother and Bandobold back towards their smial, but they were halted again almost immediately.

“Peony?”

Young Mrs Grubb was stood by her garden fence. “Mertensia told me about Aferbold,” she said, adjusting the basket she held in the crook of her arm. “I was going to drop by later to see how you all were.”

“That’s so kind,” Mrs Took said. “We’re all right, you know.”

“Good. But you know we’re here if you need anything.” She momentarily looked to the ground. “The loss of a father is… not pleasant.”

It was Tiger Lily’s first thought. Fleeting and stupid. “Father’s not dead,” she said.

Young Mrs Grubb’s expression froze in disbelief, and her mother was pinching the bridge of her nose. Tiger Lily turned her hot face towards the ground, hoping it would swallow her. It didn’t. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…” She couldn’t raise her voice above a whisper.

“Apology accepted,” Young Mrs Grubb said briskly, brushing past them. “I must be on my way.”

Tiger Lily looked at her mother, shamefaced. Mrs Took sighed, her disappointment evident on her face. “Let’s go home, shall we?”

* * *

“No.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“Don’t be an ass.” Jack drew from the pipe and blew out some smoke. “I don’t get why you won’t go. You go down the _Dragon_ often enough, why not go on the ninth? What you got planned?”

“Not much.”

“Why, then?”

Nickon looked at Jack as though this were the stupidest question he could have asked. They were leaning either side of the doorway to his father’s workshop. “You like spending time with your little sisters’ friends, do you?”

“I thought you liked Meg.”

“She’s fine. Here, give me the pipe.”

Jack put his mouth to the pipe again, drawing in as much smoke as possible before handing it back to Nickon. He parted his lips and smoke streamed out of his mouth. “She’s had a hard time of late. Throw ‘er a bone, Nick.”

Nickon drew from the pipe and then leaned forward to blow smoke in Jack’s face. Jack scowled at him with watering eyes as Nickon leaned back, an irritatingly satisfied grin spread across his face. “I ain’t obligated to humour her,” he said.

“Bloody dog,” Jack choked. “I don’t get why she wants you there.”

“A lady of good taste,” Nick said, putting the stem of the pipe between his teeth.

Jack sneered. “Right. Winden Hale and you: the two most righteous Hobbits in the Shire.”

“I like Winden.”

“You shouldn’t.”

Nickon looked over his shoulder at a third lad who was stood a few feet away with his back to the wall; denied the inner circle of the doorway and the pipe, he instead had his hands cupped around a steaming mug of tea. “What d’you reckon to Winden?”

The lad shrugged and made a noncommittal mumbling noise as he sipped his tea.

“Very helpful,” Jack said. “Give me another go on the pipe.” He made a grab for it, but Nickon jerked it out of his reach.

“My bloody pipe,” he said.

“It’s… Uh… It is, in fact, my leaf,” the third lad said.

“Mmm,” Nickon said as he drew from the pipe, not taking his eyes off Jack in case he made another attempt to take it. “Why don’t you head inside and get some more leaf, Atkin? We need a top-up.”

“You said you didn’t have any leaf,” Atkin said desperately.

“Now I’m saying I do,” Nickon said.

Atkin sighed and went to the door to the house. Jack didn’t remove his eyes from Nickon, watching him as though he were a wild animal. Nickon’s own expression didn’t change from the usual self-satisfied one of a lad who knew he was in control. When they heard the door shut behind Atkin he said, “Mayhap I will go. Reckon Meg appreciates me more’n you do.”

“Don’t take it personal, she likes everyone.”

Nickon turned his face away to look over the road, but continued to watch Jack from the corner of his eye. “You going?” he said offhandedly.

Jack shifted so that only his shoulder was leaning against the doorframe. “Obviously.”

“No need for that tone. I never go near our Lavender’s birthday parties.”

“Meg and Lavender’re different,” Jack said, his gaze drifting listlessly out over the green hills that filled the horizon. “Meg’s sort’ve… breakable.” His eyes snapped back to Nickon when he heard him snigger. “What’s funny?” he snapped.

“Everyone’s breakable,” Nickon said. “If you find the breaking point.”

Jack turned away again and scowled. “Have a lot of experience breaking people, do you?”

“I was just saying.”

“Well, don’t.”

“ _I’m_ breakable,” Nickon said, smiling affably. “Breakable as anyone. That make you feel better?”

“No.”

There was a clatter as Atkin re-emerged from the house, disgruntled. “There wasn’t any leaf,” he said.

“My mistake,” Nickon said lightly, looking in the bowl of the pipe. “But looking at it now, I don’t reckon there was much of a need for a top-up anyway. Here, lad,” he said, handing Atkin the pipe. “Enjoy.”

Atkin looked at him reproachfully, but wiped the mouthpiece on his sleeve and put the pipe in his mouth.

Jack sighed. “Is this what we’ve come to? Fighting over leaf?”

“Hopefully they’ll have some more in a day or two,” Atkin said.

Nickon folded his arms across his chest. “You fancy going down the _Dragon_ on the ninth, Atkin?”

Atkin shrugged timidly. “I could, perhaps. Depending.”

“Depending on your mum?”

Atkin stared fixedly at the ground, not saying anything.

Nickon snickered and shoved him playfully. “Those apron strings are still taut, ain’t they? I’m sure we can find a way to smuggle you out, can’t we, Jack?”

Jack had been listening to their exchange with a rising sense of irritated hopelessness. Being pulled back into the conversation was more than he could take. “I don’t care,” he said. “I need to get back to work, and I don’t care no more. Have a nice afternoon, because you won’t be seeing me.”

Nickon groaned as Jack started to walk up the road. “Jack…”

Jack scowled over his shoulder at Nickon. “I hate you.”

“Look, I’ll go if it matters that much to you.”

Jack didn’t hesitate or turn around, but made a hand gesture in Nickon’s direction.

Nickon growled and kicked at the doorpost. “He’s like a bloody cat. Impossible to make him do nothing he don’t want to…”

Atkin’s eyebrows drew together, unsure of whether this was being said to him, or just around him as was so often the case. “Um…”

The door to the workshop opened and Lavender put her head around. Her apron was covered in wood dust. “Move yourself, Nick, there’s work to be done.”

“As you say.” Nickon took the pipe from Atkin’s hands without further comment and disappeared into the workshop, closing the door behind.

Atkin stood in stunned silence for a moment, wondering why he—in a general sense—bothered. Then he sighed and turned to walk back into town, hands in pockets. Lunchtime was nearly over, and his mother would be expecting him back at the shop.

* * *

Tiger Lily heard her mother’s sharp intake of breath through her teeth as she hit a high key. She looked over her shoulder and saw Mrs Took dipping her quill in the inkpot.

“Could you try it a little lower? You’re setting my teeth on edge.”

Tiger Lily lifted her hands from the keys. In a moment of thoughtless rebellion she brought down a low dissonant chord.

Mrs Took flinched again. “There was no need for that.”

“Sorry.” She looked sadly over her shoulder. “I’ve been told that one should use music to express one’s inner feelings.”

“That’s as may be, but it wouldn’t do very well if a musician at a party only played sad songs just because she felt sad.” She cast her daughter a concerned look. “What’s troubling you?”

“Father’s gone. Opal’s gone. And Sango’s going.”

“Opal will be back in two weeks, and hopefully Father will be back soon. And Sango’s not going as far away as all that.”

“That’s still far enough.”

Mrs Took sighed, her voice dripping sympathy. “I know. It’s such a shame… But I do wonder if part of your aversion to Opal’s trip is because of the company she’s in.”

Tiger Lily scowled at the sheet music as she tried a tricky line again. “I don’t like Buffo.”

“Yes, you’ve made your opinion on that point quite clear. You’re going to have to reach some sort of truce with him, and soon. Uncle Hortenbold believes he suggested this trip so he can acquire an opal.”

Tiger Lily grimaced. It was traditional (if not strictly necessary) for a lad to present a lass with her name-flowers when making a formal proposal of marriage. After having sought her parents’ permission, of course. This was done because most lasses chose to carry or wear their name-flower on their wedding day, and the gift was symbolic of the actual flowers she would need. Over time the tradition had expanded to include jewels, as in Opal’s case. Any lad wishing to propose to a lass who wasn’t named after a flower or gem would have to get creative. Tiger Lily recalled Sango wondering how he would propose to Lorna Goodenough, who he had believed was his one true love for a time.

“I still don’t have to like him, even if he will be kin,” Tiger Lily said.

“He already is kin.”

Tiger Lily’s hands froze on the keyboard. “What?”

“My mother was a Bunce. Don’t you ever listen?” Mrs Took said, examining one of the receipts that littered the bureau. “I swear you know that family tree in the morning room by heart, but you never take the least bit of interest in my family. The Hornblowers may not be as exciting as the Tooks, but that doesn’t mean we should be disregarded entirely.”

“Sorry, Mother.” She sought for some way to make it right, at least for the time being. She had never been overly fond of her uncles on her mother’s side, who had long ago dismissed her father as a simpleton, and resented him for taking their little sister so far away from home. Their sons had been difficult to befriend, as they were all either much older or younger than herself. Their wives were nice most of the time, and were kind to her father, but they had Views on the Tooks, which they made clear through glances, if not words.

“How are Uncle Winto and Uncle Willo?” she said, hoping that asking this would go some way to amending her disregard.

“All well, dear, last time they wrote,” Mrs Took said. “Little Ella’s gotten over that fever.”

“Good.”

“Does this mean you’ll start to warm up to Mr Bunce?”

Tiger Lily sniffed. “He’s too old for her.”

Mrs Took glanced up from the account book with scrupulous eyes. “You’re aware,” she said, “that the difference in ages between Opal and Mr Bunce is a little less than the difference between myself and your father. And I believe it’s not too different from the gap between Uncle Hortenbold and Aunt Mertensia.”

“Well— Well yes, but—” Tiger Lily wasn’t sure how to phrase this politely. “With regard to proportions…”

Mrs Took gave her a withering look. “I wasn’t born at sixty. I was thirty-four when we married.” She straightened her back, holding her head up proudly. “Quite the catch, if I do say so myself.”

Tiger Lily thought about this, and then said, “But why did you all seek husbands so much older than yourselves?”

Mrs Took sighed again and looked back down at the account book open before her. “Oh, I don’t know, dear. When you’re young it’s hard not to be charmed by a dashing gentlehobbit in his forties when it feels like all the lads your own age are fools and roisterers. Unless you prefer lads of that sort, of course.” She cast a meaningful glance at her daughter.

Tiger Lily’s first instinct was to insist that Sango wasn’t really a fool and wasn’t as much of a roisterer as some other lads. Then she realised that would be falling into the trap and remained silent.

Her mother turned her eyes away again and continued, “I suppose it all seemed like rather a good idea at the time. That’s usually how these things come about. You must understand a little bit, I’ve seen your copy of _Tales from the South Farthing._ ” Tiger Lily tensed, and she suddenly became more interested in the piano than she’d ever been before. Mrs Took noticed and laughed. “There’s no need to look so worried, but Mr Booker _is_ much older than you.”

“I was very young,” Tiger Lily said, keeping her eyes on the music.

“Well, only you know when you wrote it. Though if I recall correctly, you would have already been a tweenager when we started hiring Mr Booker.”

“Yes, all right.” She brought down an incorrect chord that made her wince. She twisted around on the stool. “But he had the darkest dark eyes, and his Buckland accent… And he was always so nice to me.”

“I don’t know why you’re speaking in the past tense when none of those attributes have changed, but I concede the point. What I was really getting at is that you know the allures an older Hobbit can have for a young lady.”

“It was a girlish fancy,” Tiger Lily said, increasingly flustered. “I never actually thought… I just liked to pretend sometimes.” Currently of most concern was that among the variations of ‘Mrs Booker’ she’d written on the inside cover of _Tales_ , there were one or two variations on ‘Mrs Boffin’. There was no doubt in her mind that if her mother had seen the cover she would have noticed and remembered this fact. If Mrs Took did remember this she didn’t mention it, but there was a particular expression on her face.

Tiger Lily didn’t want to fall down that particular rabbit hole, and this conversation was treading a little too close to the edge for her liking. She tried to steer it back on course. “But don’t most married couples only have a year or two between them?”

“Yes, usually.”

“Then why do all the couples in our family—”

“I honestly don’t know, dear,” Mrs Took said in a voice that showed she wouldn’t tolerate any further questions on this topic. “Perhaps it’s something to do with you all being Tooks. Another singularity no one warned me about.” She gave a slight roll of the eyes.

Tiger Lily let this lie for a while, then said, “Mother, may I ask you a question?”

“That’s all you’ve been doing since we sat down. You’ve just asked another one, in fact.”

“This one might be more difficult to answer.”

“Then I shall answer as best I can or not at all.”

“Why did you marry Father?”

At this Mrs Took laughed. “Because I loved him, of course. What other reason is there?”

“It’s just that you and he always seemed so distant. From each other, I mean. And you’re always talking about how you don’t like the Tooks, and you said that older gentlehobbits are dashing, but I can’t imagine Father ever being dashing.”

Mrs Took smiled to herself. “You’re right there. He never was very dashing. Hortenbold was, but Father was more sweet and peculiar. He was nervous speaking to me, like a lad in the first bloom of youth. He talked my ears off about folklore.” There was a slight touch of pink on the tips of her ears as the memory of that particular Overlithe was brought to mind. “You know, your grandparents thought he would never marry. He was so shy, and content to be alone.” She smiled and rose to her feet, patting Tiger Lily on the head as she walked past. “So there’s hope for you yet, my girl.”

_But I’m not content to be alone_ , Tiger Lily thought. _At least, I don’t think I am_. “But then why are you so distant?” she said, twisting around so she could keep facing her mother.

“We’ve been married nearly thirty years, you know,” her mother said, taking a piece of paper from a drawer. “You can’t expect us to still behave like newlyweds.”

Tiger Lily looked at the floor as her mother returned to her seat. “So it doesn’t matter if you marry someone you love or not, because what love you have will dwindle anyway.”

Mrs Took sighed as she returned to her seat. “I know you’re at a difficult age. You feel like a grown-up, and you’re starting to worry about your future, but really you are still a child. No one is going to make you marry a Hobbit much older than yourself. Marry one younger than yourself if you really must. And we certainly shan’t be marrying you off until you’re of age. You’re not the sort.”

“Not the sort for what?”

“Nothing you need worry yourself about.”

Tiger Lily looked imploringly at her mother. At least she’d gotten this far without being denied an answer. “Please, Mother.”

“I’ll tell you when—”

“When I’m married?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll have so many answers to give me after I’m married I shan’t have time to do anything for at least a week.”

“Yes.” Her mother gave her an odd look. “Some I’ll give you a day or two before the wedding.”

Tiger Lily’s heart lightened for a moment and she smiled mischievously. “Which ones?”

“I’m certainly not telling you _that_.” She stared into space for a moment. “I suppose we could marry you off early if you found an exceptional match. But that’s not very likely, is it?”

The smile disappeared. There had been no trace of accusation or criticism in her mother’s tone. She was simply stating an objective fact. It might as well have been, ‘the sky is blue’. Tiger Lily turned around on the stool again, bringing her back to facing the piano. “No.” She pressed down on one of the keys despondently. “Isn’t there any possibility of my marriage being loving?”

“My marriage is loving. I love your father, and I’m glad I married him. But when you spend every day with one person their little irritating habits gnaw at you, and it becomes a matter of just plodding on, day by day.”

Tiger Lily thought about this. She didn’t like the idea of plodding on. “What’s the point of marriage, then?”

“Don’t say that,” her mother said sharply.

“Why?”

“I’m not answering any more silly questions.”

“But why don’t we just move from sweetheart to sweetheart as we please?”

Mrs Took glared at her from across the room. “I’ll send you to your room if you don’t be quiet.”

“But _why?”_

“This is your final chance.”

Tiger Lily sighed heavily and turned to the sheet music again. “Yes, Mother.” She couldn’t stand to look at the Yule carol anymore, and searched through sheet music in the piano stool until she found a May dance. Unseasonal but pretty. She set it on the music stand and began to play.

It was a short time later that a maidservant came in to announced that Master Boffin had arrived.

“Oh, that’s lovely,” Mrs Took said. “Send him in.”

Tiger Lily immediately ceased playing and looked over her shoulder as Sango arrived with his typical bouncy step.

“Hello, Mrs Took,” he said brightly as he took her hand and kissed it. “You look lovely today.”

She smiled. “One does one’s best.”

Sango grinned and approached Tiger Lily. “Shift up, wren.”

Tiger Lily scooted along the piano stool to give Sango room to sit beside her, though he faced the other direction, away from the piano. She continued playing when she had settled in her new place—perched rather uncomfortably on the end. She was unable to contain her smile.

He laughed lightly when he heard her. “What are you playing that for? It’s the dead of autumn.”

“I prefer the spring.”

He grinned and leaned back to look up at the ceiling. “Spring is just winter with flowers—the grey and the fog and the drizzle. Give me the summer sun any day.”

She pursed her lips in amusement. “I still prefer the spring.” When she came to the end of the song she twisted around on the seat so that she and Sango were both facing the same direction. “Besides, it must be the best season, because it’s the one we were born in.” In childhood Sango had taken much glee from pointing out that he was one year and nine days older than Tiger Lily. The nine days were important.

“Well, I can’t argue with that. I suppose if you prefer the spring you won’t want to brave the harsh autumn air with me.”

“That doesn’t make sense. You just admitted you prefer summer.”

“Sense is boring. Are you coming?”

“Umm…” Her initial thought was ‘yes’. Why wouldn’t she? Who else was she going to spend time with? But Opal and Aunt Mertensia were away, and Bandobold was busy with his lessons. She looked over her shoulder at Mrs Took. “Would you like to come with us, Mother? It would give you a break from the accounts.”

Mrs Took started in her seat. “Me? Are you sure?”

Glancing at Sango’s face Tiger Lily realised it was oddly rigid. She decided to disregard this until later. “Only if you want to.”

Her mother smiled and rose from her seat. “That would be lovely, thank you. I’ll fetch our cloaks, shall I?”

Sango glared at Tiger Lily as her mother left the room. “What did you do that for?” he whispered.

“I need a chaperone, and Opal’s gone to Michel Delving.”

“But your _mother?”_ he hissed.

She scowled at him. “Don’t you like my mother?”

He rolled his eyes. “Well enough, but I don’t call on you so I can spend time with _her_.”

“If you dislike her then why do you fawn over her?”

“I was not fawning.”

She rose to her feet and crossed the room, a hand placed delicately on her chest. “‘Oh, Mrs Took, how charming you look today. Oh, Mrs Took, how that colour suits you.’” She looked back at him, her brows drawn together in anger. “It’s disgusting, a lady of her age.”

“I was being chivalrous,” he said, getting to his feet alongside her.

“Oh, so you were lying.”

“It’s not really lying. Ladies like to feel that they’re younger than they are.”

“And you’d know that, would you?”

“Umm…” Mrs Took said from the doorway, where she was holding two cloaks. Both Sango and Tiger Lily turned their heads towards her. Neither had heard her approach. “A little tiff?” she said.

“A little quarrel,” Tiger Lily said firmly, still scowling at Sango. She marched up to her mother and took the proffered cloak, pausing to look back at Sango. “Are you coming, or have you changed your mind?”

He plastered an odd, maddened smile on his face and took her mother by the arm. “Of course I am, sweetling.”

The walk was awkward and subdued. Sango and Mrs Took talked animatedly, Sango displaying his usual ability to generate enthusiasm for any topic chosen by another person, regardless of how much interest he had in it outside of the conversation. Tiger Lily said little. She felt constrained by her mother’s presence. She knew it was silly. She felt the limit a little bit when they walked with Opal, but at least Opal was closer to their own age and wasn’t so much of a stickler for propriety, even if she did chide horribly. Tiger Lily’s mother didn’t chide (and she certainly wouldn’t chide in public), but she would be terribly disappointed, which was far worse than any jibe Opal could come up with. So Tiger Lily stayed silent and restrained.

The other thing was that in her mother’s company she and Sango would have to keep at a steady pace and not stray from the paths, and there would be no dallying at swings or ponds or anything else they might come across. With Opal they were allowed this much, though she would scoff at their childishness. But she was only just of age and still tolerated their nonsense to an extent.

Tiger Lily was starting to see Sango’s point.

“That was a lovely constitutional,” Mrs Took said when they finally returned to the smial.

“It was. I put it down to the company,” Sango said cheerfully, but he let go of her arm and hung back as they opened the front door. “Might I have a word with Tiger Lily, Mrs Took? By ourselves.”

Mrs Took glanced from one to the other. “If you wish.”

She stepped over the threshold, glancing back at the pair as she did. She didn’t shut the door behind her. Tiger Lily and Sango watched each other as they listened carefully to the sound of Mrs Took retreating. When they could no longer hear her footsteps Sango opened his mouth to speak, but Tiger Lily interrupted him.

“Rowley, I know it was tiresome. I’m sorry I invited Mother, and I know you weren’t fawning or lying, you were just being nice.” She hesitated. “Something I’m not very good at…”

Sango frowned at this, opening his mouth uncertainly. “Uh…”

“I said something horrible to Mrs Grubb this morning,” Tiger Lily said, her face growing hot at the memory.

“I assume you’re talking about Monno’s mother, and not his grandmother. I don’t think you’d still be alive if it were her.” He shuddered. “What did you say?”

“I can’t repeat it.”

“Oh, you and your foul mouth.”

Tiger Lily smiled faintly. “Please don’t make fun of me.”

“Sorry. I’m going to guess that you did apologise to her, since that’s a good portion of what you do.”

“Yes. But she was still upset. I think I’m going to have to hide from her from now on.”

Sango sighed and folded his arms. “Be nice to her, I’m sure she’ll forgive you eventually. Hiding never solved anything.”

“I know that.”

“I know you do.” He sighed. “To put Mrs Grubb aside for a moment, I was going to apologise to you.”

She frowned questioningly at him. “What for?”

“Your mother’s fine company, and if having her as a chaperone is what you need to protect your reputation, then that’s what you need. I shouldn’t have made a fuss.”

Tiger Lily opened her mouth, but lacking an adequate reply, only sighed. Her eyes flickered to the window of the morning room, and saw her mother’s face staring out at them. “She’s watching us.”

“Really?” Sango turned around to wave to her, at which point she started scratching at an imaginary mark on the windowpane. He turned back around to Tiger Lily, grinning. “I don’t think she can hear us. We could make her think we’re talking about anything.”

Tiger Lily opened her mouth in mock horror and covered her mouth. “I wonder what she thinks now,” she said, removing her hands and smiling.

“Probably just that I’m a cad,” Sango said looking over his shoulder at the window again. “Could we move away from the window? I’m starting to feel like an ornament.”

They walked around to the side of the smial, outside Tiger Lily’s bedroom window. She leaned against the fence, but decided against it when she felt the wood shifting under her weight. It was still damp from the rain. “What are we going to do when you move away? I mean, practically speaking, how are we going to manage to see each other?”

Sango shook his head. “It’ll be all right.”

“How?”

“It just will.”

“But _how?_ ” she said, frustrated. “You can’t just say ‘it’ll be all right’ without giving any reasoning. I can’t drag Mother or Opal to Overhill whenever we want to see each other.”

“Then I’ll come to Bywater,” Sango said hotly.

“That’s not fair on you.”

“I won’t mind.”

“You will eventually.” She went and stood against the wall of the smial, arms folded.

“I’ll just have to put up with it. It’s not just you, you know. I do have other friends here, and then there’s Lavender.”

Tiger Lily frowned in thought. Sango would need to divide his newly limited time between them, and if he had made the trouble of journeying all the way to Bywater from Overhill he would want to see as many people as possible. “Why do we only ever fight over silly things?” she said.

Sango shrugged. “It’s better than fighting over things that matter, isn’t it?”

“But all that wasted energy…”

“You worry too much.”

“I’m not disagreeing with you. Not on that point, at least.” She swallowed. “Could we go camping?”

He frowned in confusion. “I don’t quite understand your thought process. You’ll never convince your mother or Opal to camp out with us.”

She thought about this for a moment, then said, “I wouldn’t need a chaperone if we set out after dark. No one would be able to see that I’m unattended.”

He snickered. “Flawless as your logic is, that doesn’t change the fact that I hate camping. Especially in October.”

“Please?”

“It’s _October_.”

“Exactly, so we’d need to go now before it gets even colder. And it’s a full moon next week, I think.”

“We can go in the spring,” he said.

“That’s months away. I just need to get out. Away from drawing rooms and people and the empty study.” She swallowed. “It’s his birthday on Friday. He’s going to be all by himself.”

“Oh. He’ll have the other Tooks and the Brandybucks, though, won’t he?”

“He hardly knows any of the Tooks, and even fewer of the Brandybucks.” She arranged her features into an expression she hoped was pleading-but-not-too-pathetic. “Please, Rowley? It would make me awfully happy.”

At this he groaned and hung his head in defeat. After a short pause he asked, “What day is the full moon?”

She squealed and ran to hug him. “Wednesday. You really are the best of Hobbits, you know.”

“Yes, yes, all right,” he said, pulling her off him. “And you have the gall to accuse me of fawning, little minx. How did you manage to ensnare me?”

“Pies mostly.”

“Ah.” He half-smiled. “You know there will be a price to pay?”

“Of course.” They started to stroll along the length of the fence, following the little stone path that led between the waning flowerbeds. Tiger Lily walked with one arm extended out to the side to brush her fingers through the damp grass that grew up the side of the smial. “What price, out of interest?”

“You’ll find out on Wednesday,” he said. “You won’t like it.”

She smiled wryly. “I will bear the penalty without complaint.”

By this point they had come to the long section of fencing that partitioned the garden, marking the separation between the garden proper and the yard that contained the stables and coach house. Though they couldn’t see it from this angle, the shed Mr Took and (until recently) Tiger Lily used for making arrows and longbows also stood in the yard. She supposed she should go there at some point to make sure everything was in order. No one would be going in there until her father came back, after all. Beyond the fence two ponies grazed contentedly on the grass.

“Will you stay for tea?” she said.

He squirmed. “I can’t, sorry. Me and some of the lads are going to the _Green Dragon_ this evening. Do you fancy coming along? Lavender and one or two other ladies are going to be there, so you wouldn’t be unaccompanied.”

“I’ll let you guess my answer.”

“You know,” Sango said, leaning on the partition, “if you want to make more friends, you will have to start attending more social gatherings.”

Tiger Lily curled her toes uncomfortably. “I will. On a different day. It’s too last minute to go this evening.”

She could tell from Sango’s expression that he wasn’t convinced. “All right. But I think we’ll be having a party a day or two before me move, and while I shan’t force you to go, it would make me _awfully happy_ if you did, and I think it would be to your own benefit to do so. There. You can’t accuse me of springing that on you at the last minute.”

“We’ll see,” she said resignedly.

“That’s all I ask.” He tried to ruffle her hair, but didn’t manage very well, with it being pinned down so tightly.

“Stop it,” she said, pushing him away. “If you’re going to go to an inn, then you’d better do it.”

He laughed as Tiger Lily shoved him away. “I’m going, I’m going!” He took light steps towards the same part of the fence he always climbed over to leave.

She remembered a second too late how unstable the fence was. “Rowley—”

There was a yelp, and a moment later Sango was lying on the ground, the remains of that section of the fence lying around him.

“Sorry!” Tiger Lily said, rushing over to him. She took his arm and supported his weight as he got unsteadily to his feet. “Are you hurt?”

“Uh…” He looked down at himself, seemingly more shocked than hurt. He brushed at the mud that covered his waistcoat. It made no difference; his entire front was caked in the stuff. “I don’t think so.” He examined his grimy hands. They seemed to be free of cuts.

Tiger Lily drew her handkerchief out of her pocket and dabbed at the mud smeared over his cheeks. “Why don’t you come in and have a cup of tea?”

“All right,” he looked down at the remains of the fence. The planks that used to connect the fence posts had broken in half under his weight, the strain of being used as his ladder over the years having finally taken its toll. The rain had only helped it on its way. “I’ll, um… I’ll pay for someone to come and fix the fence.”

“Don’t worry about that now. Come along.” She tenderly took his arm, and softly began to lead him back down the garden path.


	12. Building Bridges

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, according to a letter by Tolkein (#214), as well as giving presents on their birthday, the birthday-Hobbit will also receive a present from the head of the family (or, in the case of big families like the Tooks, the head of that particular line) as a symbol of kinship. Since it doesn’t appear in any works intended for publication, this tradition isn’t technically canon, but I thought I’d go with it anyway. I just wanted to make that clear so that it doesn’t look like some weirdness I came up with myself when birthday traditions for Hobbits are described in so much detail in LotR.  
> Also, as before, don’t use any medicines described to treat yourself.

It was while the rest of the family were finishing their elevenses that Dalgo entered the dining room, bleary eyed and in a state of disarray. Young Mrs Grubb breathed a private sigh of relief; it was the first time she had seen her eldest son that morning.

“And where have you been?” Old Mrs Grubb said. Petunia was sat beside her, spreading butter over a scone.

“In my study. Working,” Dalgo said, picking up a scone from the cake stand and cutting it in half. “Where else?”

“I don’t know, I thought maybe you’d gone to sea,” she said. “Missing both breakfasts. It’s not normal. Not the blueberry!” She brought her hand down on the table with a smack that made the crockery chime and Petunia drop her scone. “Blackberry, I said!”

Petunia paled as she hurriedly went to take another scone. “Sorry, Mrs Grubb.”

Young Mrs Grubb sighed and set her cup of tea down in its saucer. “Why don’t you start clearing up the kitchen, Petunia? I can manage here.”

“Yes, madam,” Petunia said, rising and scurrying out of the room, the relief visible on her face.

Young Mrs Grubb moved the blueberry scone onto her own plate (there was no sense in letting to go to waste) and set about preparing a new one. She wondered vaguely if Petunia had only accepted her proposal in order to escape their smial.

While all this had being going on Monno had been watching Dalgo, his mouth puckered in distaste. “I hope you haven’t been seeing clients in that state,” he said.

“No, I only disordered myself to irritate you,” Dalgo said blandly, buttering a scone. His mouth twisted into a spiteful smile. “I haven’t had to register any deaths today, if that’s of any consolation to you.”

“Not a great deal.”

“You could make some effort,” Abelia said. “I’m sure you could be… acceptable-looking if you tried.”

“I have moved beyond the frivolous pursuit of the aesthetic ideal,” Dalgo said.

Abelia groaned and covered her face with her hands. “Why do you talk like that? No one talks like that!”

“Let’s not argue,” Young Mrs Grubb said.

“I’m sorry you dislike my mode of dress, Abelia,” Dalgo said. His expression was indifferent but there was a certain cruel glint in his eye as he continued with a deliberate emphasis, “I know dark colours aren’t to your taste.”

Abelia’s face went red with anger and she opened her mouth to speak.

“Let’s not bring that up, either,” Young Mrs Grubb said quickly. She considered pointing out that their father didn’t allow raised voices at the dining table, but decided this would do more harm than good. She inhaled deeply as she set Old Mrs Grubb’s scone on her plate and did her best to smile at Dalgo. “It would be nice if you took some pride in your appearance. For yourself as much as anyone else.”

“Oh, don’t bother,” Monno said, setting his teacup down and rising from his seat. “He never listens. I have a wedding to officiate, I’ll see you all later.” He gave his mother a brief peck on the cheek before leaving the room.

Young Mrs Grubb left her mother-in-law to her scones and turned to Dalgo. “I am glad I managed to catch you, actually. We need to talk about who you want as the new maidservant.”

“I want the short one,” Old Mrs Grubb said, chewing.

Young Mrs Grubb didn’t turn her head, but kept looking at her son, a tense smile forming on her face. “Dalgo?”

“I thought there was still some time to go before Petunia’s departure,” Dalgo said.

“There is, but I would like some time to adjust one of her uniforms. I don’t want the new maid serving in day clothes in front of company. Now, I favour Miss—”

“I want the short one,” Old Mrs Grubb said again.

Young Mrs Grubb cast her a sidelong look. “I wasn’t addressing you, Mother.”

“So I’m only allowed to speak when spoken to, is that it?”

Young Mrs Grubb sighed resignedly and looked over at Abelia. “You don’t have to stay, Abbie, it’s awfully boring stuff.”

“I don’t mind staying,” Abelia said, resting her jaw in her hands, obviously expecting the following conversation to be more amusing than any other way she could occupy her time.

Young Mrs Grubb returned to Dalgo. “Who do you favour?”

Old Mrs Grubb brought her hand down on the table again, making her daughter-in-law wince. “I tell you, I want the short one with the smart mouth—what was her name?”

“Delver,” Dalgo said.

“Yes, that’s the one. I want her.”

“No, you don’t,” Young Mrs Grubb said, doing her best to keep her voice level. “Eat your scone.”

“It’s my attendant and I have every right to say who I want, and I want the short one.”

“You weren’t even supposed to attend the interviews. I only let you in because you kept ramming your chair against the door.”

“And it worked,” Old Mrs Grubb said smugly, drawing herself up. “You had no right to block me out like that. A fine way to treat your mother-in-law, who welcomed you into her home and gave you her only son and—”

“ _This_ ,” Young Mrs Grubb said, her voice equal parts anguish and irritation. “ _This_ was why I wasn’t going to let you sit in.” She looked at Dalgo for support, but found he was smiling amusedly.

“You’re being very quiet,” she snapped. “It’s your smial and your wages, so who do you favour?”

Dalgo raised his head loftily and poured himself a cup of tea. “I trust your judgement.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “No, you don’t. You want the Delver lass too. I can tell.”

He sipped his tea. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

Young Mrs Grubb tossed her spectacles onto the table and buried her head in her hands. “You’re all mad.”

“I’m not,” Abelia said.

“Don’t talk back,” Dalgo said.

“But just how am I supposed to speak to anyone without talking back to them?”

“You know full well that’s what not talking back means.”

Young Mrs Grubb watched them arguing through her fingers, lacking the energy to intervene. It was when Old Mrs Grubb joined in that she fully surrendered to the sense of abandon. “Fine!” she said, standing. The sound of her raised voice shocked the others into silence. Her breath quickened, and she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Fine. If you want to let an impudent little chit into our home, I will bow to the common will. But when— _when_ —she makes a fool of us in front of company I am holding the two of you personally responsible.” She looked from Dalgo to Old Mrs Grubb before storming out of the room.

Dalgo, Abelia and Old Mrs Grubb looked at each other, frozen and unsure. A moment later Young Mrs Grubb returned to the room, red in the face. “Forgot my spectacles,” she mumbled, snatching them up from the table.

“Mother…” Dalgo said, and she hesitated in her retreat, “I will give approval to whoever you choose.”

Some of her tension dissipated as she sighed. “I don’t really care anymore, sweetheart. What difference will another raver make in this smial?”

She left them to their silence once again. Old Mrs Grubb bit into her scone and started to chew loudly. Dalgo cleared his throat. “I suppose that means a visit to East Warren Lane is in order.”

“Can I go?” Abelia said.

“No.”

“You can’t deny me, I’m not a child.”

“You’ve no business there. Have you ever been to that part of Bywater?” he said, and drank from his cup.

“I go there sometimes with friends to see how the low-born Hobbits live.” At this Dalgo was seized by a coughing fit and Abelia had to thump him on the back. “Got it out of your system?” she said sweetly as the coughs started to subside.

“Yes,” he said hoarsely.

The corner of Abelia’s mouth twitched and she gave him one final thump, much harder than the others, making his eyes water.

“Yes, thank you, Abelia,” he said, trying to swat her away. He gulped down some more tea, glowering at her from over the top of his spectacles. “Why am I only learning about this now?”

She rolled her eyes and flounced out of the room, gripping her skirts for added drama. “You’re not Father.”

He scrambled to his feet and pursued her. “I don’t want you walking around those parts of Bywater!”

“Mother, Dalgo’s being an ass again!”

At the table Old Mrs Grubb had been watching all of this with mild disinterest. Now she finished her scone, wiped her mouth with a napkin and started to wheel herself out of the room. “This is why I stopped at one,” she said.

* * *

Her arms ached. Her back ached. Everything ached. That was without the stinging cold on her fingers and face. Clover sat back and looked at her fingers: dirt was crusted around the nails, the knuckles were swollen and tender. She folded her arms, tucking her hands between her upper arms and bodice.

“Would you like my cloak?” Meg said.

“No.” She watched as Meg pulled a particularly large stone out of the earth and dropped it in the bucket with a _clink._ Little groups of workers were dotted over the bleak, bare field, each with a bucket between them. “I hate de-stoning.”

“Half-day,” Meg said, smiling through her shivers. “Think how glad you’ll be when we’re indoors.”

Clover scowled and did her best to brush off a stone she’d pulled out of the ground. “Why’d you have to be so bloody nice all the time?”

“Sorry. Don’t mean to be. Here, I don’t think we’ll be able to lift it if we fill it up any more.”

Clover and Meg each took a hold of the handle and lifted. Even with the both of them together it put a strain on Clover’s already tired arms, and the rope was making her hands sting. She needed to get out of here.

* * *

It had been the idea of Tiger Lily’s mother for each of the Bywater Tooks to write their own letter to Aferbold, to be sent together in a little package along with Uncle Hortenbold’s kinship gift. It would be a nice surprise for him to hear from each member of the family individually, even if his birthday would have long gone by the time it reached him.

Tiger Lily’s mother had written one. Uncle Hortenbold had written one (though the writing on the envelope had been in Aunt Mertensia’s distinctively neat hand). Bandobold had written one. Tiger Lily hadn’t.

They had received their first letter from Aferbold a few days earlier. Tiger Lily had skidded on a rug in her haste to get to the drawing room to hear it, while Bandobold had asked a million questions without pausing for breath. What was Buckland like? Had he been in the Old Forest yet? Had he seen any Mewlips? The mood sobered considerably when they heard what he had written.

Now Tiger Lily had borrowed his letter in the hopes this would give her inspiration for writing her own. She picked it up from the desk and read it a third time.

_To My Three Darlings,_

_I have reached Brandy Hall safely and with disappointing speed. There are so many people in the Hall that I have so far spent most of my time in my chamber, which I am sharing with Cousins Everand and Ferdinand._

_We have not yet done much searching of the Old Forest as it is difficult ground to cover. I despise the woods, and I suspect the feeling is mutual. In what time we have spent there, we have been unable to find any sign of our missing kin._

_To aid the search the Tooks have been divided up into seven groups, each headed by the heir of one of the Old Took’s grandsons. As the only representative of my father, I have been given charge of four of my cousins, and it is not a task I am suited to. Eramett and Ebbold are not at all happy to be under my command. Trefoil is kinder, but a little brash. The fourth is Cousin Ivy and she has been a great help to me, especially as I have not been able to think very clearly these last few days. These expeditions combined with the journey here have brought on a cold. I have taken agrimony and lemon and feel a little better, though my head still hurts dreadfully._

_I have seen little of the Thain or my host, and they have been greatly agitated on the occasions I have seen them, which is understandable given the circumstances. I feel a weight on my heart that I have been so unwilling to help, when their only sons are gone into the wild. I cannot imagine their grief. Master Peregrin is a child still, not a great deal older than my own lass. I see myself through their eyes and am repulsed by my own behaviour. I shall do my best to help my kin, though more than anything I want to come home._

_I still hope that this could all be only an adventure, and all will return home safely and with many stories to tell. But tales of Mewlips and barrow wrights chill me. I miss you all terribly._

_I know you will all be coping splendidly without me, and I only wish I was coping as well. Do keep a close concord with my brother’s family, and I hope you will be able to find comfort in them if you are in need of it._

_I hope to hear from you soon._

_Ever Yours,_

_Father_

Tiger Lily put the letter down again and slowly started to write out her response. She had made several attempts to start, but each had been abandoned after she had spent too long agonising over exact phrasing and punctuation. But now she had run out of time. There wasn’t a great deal to say. She asked one or two questions. She told him she hoped he got better soon, and that he would have a nice birthday, that Sango was moving to Overhill, and sent his regards, and about the little outings they had been on. She told him she missed him.

There was nothing else to say.

Tiger Lily folded the letter and made her way to the drawing room where her mother was sat on the floor, wrapping presents in brown paper. As with every year, they would be handed out to the servants with the wages as a thanks for a year’s work from the master of the smial. This year would be no different, despite his absence. “Can I help?” she said.

“I’m nearly done,” Mrs Took said.

Tiger Lily cast an eye over an unwrapped vase. “Are you sure you want to give that away, Mother? Wasn’t it a present from Uncle Willo?”

“Well, Thyme’s mother’s been ill, so I thought I’d give her something a bit nicer this year.” She smiled puckishly and put her hands on her knees. “Uncle Willo need never know. Are those the letters?” her eyes flitted down to the papers in Tiger Lily’s hand.

“Yes. Where would you like me to leave them?”

“Here, I’ll take them,” Mrs Took said, rising stiffly to her feet and holding a hand out. Tiger Lily handed them to her and groaned as her mother unfolded the newly written letter.

“Oh, Mother, really? It’s only to Father.”

“Mmm…” She didn’t look up from the letter as she pulled out the chair to sit at the writing desk.

“But it’s not as though Father’s going to share it with other people,” Tiger Lily said desperately.

“You know how he is for forgetting things. If a letter of yours is going to fall into the hands of some Brandybuck rascal, I’m going to make sure there’s nothing incriminating.”

“There’s nothing incriminating there.”

“It pertains, in part, to a lad,” Mrs Took said. “So there’s potential for incrimination. Once a letter’s been sent, it’s out of your power. It might be stolen, shared with others or kept—”

“Kept in a drawer for fifty years,” Tiger Lily said, sitting down on a settee as she prepared to repeat the rest of the mantra. “And if I send a letter that could be read as improper, even if that was not my intent, it could ruin my future prospects. I know.”

Mrs Took sniffed. “It is true, you know. My mother read all my letters until I was married, and it never did me harm.” She stood, placing the letter on the desk and pulling the chair out. “I would like you to mention that I accompanied you and Sango to Mossdown Rocks.”

“Yes, Mother.” Tiger Lily went to sit in the chair.

Mrs Took placed a kiss on the top of her head. “There’s a good lass.”

Tiger Lily smiled at the warm feeling that grew in her stomach and took up the quill. “Do you have any plans for this afternoon?” she said. She had none herself.

There was the crinkle of paper as Mrs Took returned to wrapping the presents. “I’m going to be calling to the Goodenough’s. Mrs Goodenough is organising her usual fund to benefit the poor at Yule, and it gives Bandobold a chance to play with children his own age. Would you like to come along? You and Lorna could have a little chat.”

“Um… I don’t think I will, if that’s all right.” She didn’t really like Lorna.

“Perfectly. Did you have any plans of your own?”

Tiger Lily leaned her jaw in her hand, watching the trail of ink dry on the line she’d just written. What _could_ she do? “I could see Sango.” They would have to stay in the house, for want of a chaperone.

“I see.” There was a pause. “Then you might ask him about arranging someone to fix the fence.”

The knot of anxiety that made a permanent home in Tiger Lily’s stomach tightened a little. “He will. He’s just busy with moving preparations.”

“I’m sure.” She didn’t sound convinced. Tiger Lily looked over at her and frowned in confusion. Seeing this, Mrs Took sighed. “Lovely as Sango is, his sense of responsibility does leave a little something to be desired.”

Tiger Lily scowled, feeling affronted. “He’s busy, that’s all.”

“Your loyalty does you credit.”

Tiger Lily turned back to the paper in front of her and signed off the letter with an irritated flourish. “It’s done,” she said.

“Lovely. Just leave it there and so I can put it with the others.”

Tiger Lily went to leave the room, but was interrupted when she reached the door. “Out of interest,” her mother said, “why did you ask about how many Took ladies there are in Buckland?”

“Oh.” Tiger Lily started scratching at the paintwork on the doorframe. “It’s just I wanted to know why Ivy and Trefoil are there. I thought ladies weren’t of any use.”

“Well, they’re spinsters, they have to find something to keep themselves occupied,” Mrs Took said hotly.

“ _I’m_ a spinster.”

“You’re a child.”

“Why didn’t Opal go?”

_“I don’t know._ But I can’t imagine Mertensia would want her daughter running about the Old Forest like that. Not if she cares about her reputation,” Mrs Took said. She looked like she had eaten something sour.

Tiger Lily nodded. She had irritated her mother again. She did her best to smile. “I understand now. Thank you, Mother,” she said brightly.

Her mother’s face relaxed slightly as it became obvious there would be no more questions. “That’s all right. You have a nice afternoon.”

“You too.”

Tiger Lily made the journey to Boffin’s Farm alone, keeping her head down. When she arrived she was directed to the morning room to wait. She turned her head to the door when it opened, expecting Sango. But it was Mrs Boffin who walked in, all smiles and jangling bracelets.

“Hello, Tiger Lily, dear. How is your family?

Tiger Lily looked down at the floor. “Fine thank you, Mrs Boffin.”

“Have you heard from your father? Have they found anything?”

“Not yet.”

“Ah, well. I’m sure they’ll be found soon.” She walked past Tiger Lily and started to brush down one of the cushions on a settee. “I suppose it must be difficult for your father, with his… infirmities.”

“Yes…”

Mrs Boffin sat down daintily and arranged her skirts neatly around her. “Sango’s just popped out, I’m afraid. But I’m glad you’re here.” She smiled at Tiger Lily and patted the seat beside her. Tiger Lily nervously settled down in the offered place. “The young lady Sango left the house with—what can you tell me about her?”

“Lavender?”

Mrs Boffin’s smiled widened, showing off her dimples. “That’s right. What sort of lass is she?”

Tiger Lily swallowed. There was something she didn’t like about this, but she wasn’t quite sure what. “What sorts are there?”

“Oh, you know. What’s her bearing, her parentage?” She hesitated. “She seemed a little different from the lasses that have turned Sango’s head before.”

Tiger Lily chewed her lip and gripped her skirts. She turned her head to the door at the sound approaching footfall and low conversation.

“Don’t mind them. That’s just the workers leaving the house. Why don’t I call for some tea and we can have a nice long chat?”

Tiger Lily tried to smile back, nervously. “I don’t have much to tell you. I’ve seen little of her.”

“Ah.” Mrs Boffin smoothed down her skirts. “Well, when you see more of her you can come to me and we can have a chat then, hmm? Best not say anything to Sango. Keep things between us ladies.” She patted Tiger Lily’s knee, setting her bracelets clinking again.

Tiger Lily rose, flustered. “I think I need to take my leave.”

“It’s just I’m a little concerned,” Mrs Boffin said, standing, “that a lass such as her is not suitable for him. Don’t you agree?”

“I’m not sure,” Tiger Lily said in a wavering voice. She dropped a brief, panicked curtsey. “Goodbye, Mrs Boffin.” She ducked into the hallway and closed the door behind her without waiting for Mrs Boffin to say anything else. She had to press her back against the door to keep out of the way of the passing gaggle of servants and farmhands. She kept her eyes on the floor to keep from meeting their eyes. She risked an upward glance as the group was reaching the end of the passage, and picked Rob out of the crowd easily. He looked over his shoulder at her and nodded, tugging at his cap.

She smiled at him briefly, and then the workers turned the corner. She followed behind them through the front door, keeping enough distance between herself and them that she didn’t feel too embarrassed that they were taking the same path over the fields to the gate that led onto the road. Slowly, Rob started to fall behind the others. Tiger Lily clasped her hands together as he fell into step with her.

“Afternoon, miss,” he said, walking with an easy gait.

“Good afternoon.”

“Been up to see Master Sango?”

“That was my intention, but it seems he’s otherwise occupied.”

“Ah. Your plans been spoilt, then?”

“Such as they were.”

They were the last ones through the gate, and closed it together. Rob looked back at the departing crowd of Delvers before licking his top lip and turning back to her. “I don’t have nothing planned neither. Fancy wasting the afternoon?”

Tiger Lily smiled without trying, the way she usually only smiled when Sango was in the room. “Yes. Definitely.”

Rob nodded, one of his large hands still resting on the gate. “Let me head home for something to eat first. We can meet up where we did last week.”

“We could get something at an inn.”

He winced at this. “No. I still can’t pay you back for last time.”

“You don’t need to.”

“I want to. I want to pay you back, but I don’t have nothing to give.”

Tiger Lily stared at the road as a thought slowly crept into her mind. She looked up at Rob. “Do you know how to fix a fence?”

* * *

“I still don’t understand why you wanted to come,” Dalgo said as he and Abelia walked side by side down East Warren Lane.

“It’s interesting,” she said, looking at a pair of matrons gossiping over a fence. She looked back at her brother and held her nose in the air petulantly. “And Mother said I could, so there.”

Dalgo turned away and sniffed. That she had come to this place in his company was of a little comfort, but not enough. Better for her to stay in the neighbourhood near the Pool. He noticed that she was lagging behind—distracted by a group of children playing hopscotch.

“For goodness sake stay close to me. And don’t stare.”

Abelia scowled and did her best to keep up with his long strides. “I never understand how people can say, ‘don’t stare.’ How are you supposed to look at anything without staring? Am I to walk about with my eyes closed for the rest of my life?”

“Don’t feign ignorance. You know perfectly well what I mean.”

“What if I don’t?”

“You do.”

“You can’t prove that.”

Dalgo’s eyes became thundery. “Then I will recommend to Mother that we write to Miss Bradley.”

Miss Bradley had been Abelia’s tutoress until earlier that year, and this suggestion silenced her immediately. Dalgo paused outside Number 12. A youth was raking up leaves in the front garden and had been watching their approach. Dalgo smiled briefly and dispassionately at the lad and opened the gate for the suddenly bashful Abelia. “Would I be correct in thinking this is the Delver residence?” he said, closing the gate again as he followed her into the garden.

“You would,” the lad said, not pausing in this work.

When it became obvious the lad wasn’t going to offer any more assistance Dalgo continued, “And is Miss Clover at home?”

“Think so.”

“Might it be possible to speak with her?”

The lad pulled a face and leaned his rake against the chestnut tree. “I’ll make inquiries forthwith, my good sir.”

“Thank you,” Dalgo said, doing his best not to make his irritation noticeable, though he could see Abelia grinning from the corner of his eye.

The lad opened the front door and put his head through. “Oi, Clove! Some posh bugger’s out here asking after you.” He smiled at the indistinct shout he received in reply. He turned his smile on Dalgo as he went to retrieve his rake. “She’ll be out directly.”

Dalgo didn’t trust himself to reply.

Clover emerged from the smial a moment later, wiping her hands on a dish rag. When she caught sight of Dalgo and Abelia she froze, her quick eyes darting from one to the other as she tried to assess the situation. It was Abelia’s presence that threw her. Still she kept her back straight and poised. Taking queenly steps over the threshold she held her head high, though not so much as to make her bravado too obvious. “Good day, Mr Grubb. Young miss.” She turned her head to see Hender grinning wickedly and leaning on his rake.

“Don’t you mind me, now,” he said.

Clover remained stoic. “Why don’t you head inside and take over the mopping for me?”

“That’s lasses’ work.”

“Away with you,” she said, throwing the dish rag at him, which he caught easily with one hand. As Hender went inside Clover returned her attention to the Grubbs. “I wasn’t expecting to see you again, Mr Grubb. I hope your family’s well.”

“Quite well, thank you,” he said.

She tried to lift her features sufficiently to appear helpful. “How can I be of service?” She asked this despite knowing the answer already—the only answer there could be. But that seemed so unlikely. Even if it was true she couldn’t make him feel foolish by thinking too far ahead of him. Mr Grubb didn’t come across as the sort of Hobbit who was kind to those who made him feel foolish.

Dalgo stood with his feet together and kept his hands folded behind his back. “Your turn of phrase is apt. I’ve come to tell you that the maidservant position in our smial is yours, provided you are able to supply a reference from your current employer.”

Clover clasped her hands as the reality of this began to sink in. “I see. Thank you, Mr Grubb.”

Dalgo’s eyebrows raised a fraction. Clover tilted her head to one side. “Is something the matter, sir?”

“Only that I had anticipated that you would be more surprised. Considering the way in which your interview ended.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, there weren’t no other reason for you to call on me.” She realised she had given away too much and bowed her head in a display of humility. She was not going to let her arrogance ruin this for her again. The trick to being one’s own master was to make everyone else think they were the ones with power. “Thank you for favouring me, sir. I will serve you and your family as best I can.”

She rose her head again, and saw that some of Dalgo’s self-assured air had disappeared, apparently unnerved by this sudden show of subservience. There was a pang of satisfaction as she realised she had taken him by surprise twice in as many encounters.

“I’m sure,” he said, pulling himself together as best he could. “Do drop in on us when you have that reference, and Mother can measure you for your uniform. We should be ready for you to begin your work not long after that.”

Clover drew in a deep breath. An actual uniform. She almost felt out of her depth. “I will. Thank you, sir.” A rather important point occurred to her. “Please, sir, how much is the position worth?”

“With the cost of board removed, it’s nine shillings a week.”

Clover nodded, but furrowed her brow as she did. It was less than half of what she got on the farm. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

He gave a shallow bow. “Until our next meeting.”

She curtseyed. “And you, sir.” She suddenly remembered the still-silent Abelia. She curtseyed again. “Nice to meet you, miss,” Clover said, fully aware that they hadn’t even spoken.

Abelia curtseyed in return, but kept her eyes turned down. “And you.”

Clover couldn’t rid herself of the question of why Dalgo had brought this lass with him. She wouldn’t ask, though. It wasn’t worth the risk. But Dalgo must have seen what she was thinking in her expression, because he smiled and said, “My sister Abelia. We’re under strict instructions to walk her briskly twice a day.”

Abelia’s head snapped around to look at him. “Excuse _me—!”_

“We must be on our way,” Dalgo said, opening the gate for Abelia and smiling in a way that—in the right light—could be mistaken for affable. “Good day, Miss Delver.”

Clover watched as they went back down the lane, bickering as they went. What now? She would need to get that reference from Mr Boffin. That probably wouldn’t be a problem; she had known him give good references to sots and ninnies. She would need to pack up her things, which would man determining what actually belonged to her. Individual ownership was only a vaguely understood philosophy among the elder Delvers, who had stopped caring. She would have to tell her family she was leaving the farm. She would have to tell them she was leaving home. Oh dear…

Clover turned to go back inside, but stopped short when she saw three small faces (and one larger face) pressed against the window. She groaned internally and started muttering to herself as she went indoors, steeling herself. As soon as she had shut the door Maizey bounced up to her from the parlour. The twins and Martin hung back, wary of Clover’s prickly nature.

“Got yourself a young gentlehobbit, have you?” Maizey said, grinning.

Clover looked up at her sullenly. She didn’t have time for this. “I’m not Rob,” she said. “You try any of your mischief with me and you won’t have no teeth left by the end of the day.” She put her hand on the door that led to the kitchen.

“Like to see you reach that high.”

Clover turned sharply but Maizey had already escaped through the front door. She sighed resignedly as she entered the kitchen. Her father was lying shirtless on the table while her mother rubbed henbane oil. Clover doubted its effectiveness. If anyone else shared her doubts they hadn’t vocalised it. Meg was mopping the floor with irritating enthusiasm.

“All dealt with, lass?” Mr Delver said, his voice muffled by his arm, which he was resting his head on. “Who was it?”

“No one important…” She was watching Meg. “What’re you doing?” Clover said wearily, already suspecting she wouldn’t like the answer.

The bewilderment was clear on her face. “Hender said you wanted me to.”

Clover rolled her eyes. “Bloody knave. I asked him to do it.”

Meg half-smiled and dunked the mop in the bucket. “Ah well. I like to keep busy.”

Clover groaned internally as she looked back over at their parents. Mrs Delver had finished applying the henbane oil, and was now washing her hands. “I need to have a word with you,” Clover said.

“About what?” Mr Delver said as he did up the buttons on his shirt.

“You haven’t done nothing silly, have you?” Mrs Delver said, drying her hands on her apron.

“Nothing like that,” she said, sitting down at the table. “It’s a good thing. I got myself a new job.”

Silence. Her parents both looked at her, perfectly still, a look of blank incomprehension on their faces.

“Why?” her mother said.

Clover shrugged. “I wanted one.”

Mr Delver leaned back in his seat, regarding her. “What job?”

She stared back at him as hard as she could. “I don’t reckon that’s your concern.”

“Clove,” he said, leaning forward, “I’m your father. Tell me.”

Her insides withered slightly. There was no avoiding this. “A maid job.”

More silence. Mr Delver inhaled in an audible hiss, and then exhaled silently. “You know how I feel about servant work.”

“I do.”

“But you went for it anyway.”

“Aye.”

They looked at each other and a smile slowly spread across his features. “Good on you.” He leaned back in his chair again. “I say that because you went your own way, not because you’re happy to lower yourself.”

Clover held her arms out to indicate the room around them. “We can’t get no lower than we are now. An’ I don’t see what the difference is atween working indoors or working the land,” she said. “We’re serving the uppers no matter what.”

“But being in the field ain’t the same as waiting on ‘em. There’s a dignity to it.”

“Not really. They call you by your first name no matter if you work indoors or out.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “What’s that to the point?”

Clover folded her arms. “You don’t let no one Master Sango’s age call you ‘Jon’. ‘Cept the Boffins.”

“If you’re trying to convince me to let you have your way, you’re going about it wrong. How much is it worth?”

“Nine shillings a week.”

Mr Delver inhaled again. “Ah.”

“What?” Mrs Delver said, looking from one to the other. “I don’t get it. Why’s it so little?”

Clover pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth. This would be the other tricky point. “It’s because when I take the job, I’ll be going to live in their smial with them.”

“No,” Mrs Delver said instantly.

“Joy-love—” Mr Delver said.

“No,” Mrs Delver said again, backing away from them. “You can’t. You need to stay here, with us. We need to stay together.” She pressed her hands to her mouth. Her eyes were wide and staring.

Mr Delver stood and wrapped his arms around her. “All right, lass…” He held her close as she whimpered and hid her face in his shoulder.

Clover watched, feeling guilty but unmoved in her resolve.

“I’m all right, Jon,” Mrs Delver whispered, leaning out of the hug.

Mr Delver looked at Clover disdainfully. “I thought you had more self-respect than that. You’re worth more than nine shillings a week.”

Clover’s temper twanged like a fiddle string. “So I’m worth sixteen shillings a week. Is that so much of a difference? I’d’ve thought I was worth more’n any amount of coin.”

Mr Delver leaned forward, resting his hands on the table. “I can’t believe you. Is nine shillings really the price you put on your dignity?”

Clover stood, unable to contain herself any longer. “What’s the good of dignity if our bellies are empty?”

Mr and Mrs Delver glanced at each other. “Our bellies aren’t empty,” she said quietly.

“And for how much longer? Just because you don’t talk about out money troubles in front of us, it don’t mean we’re blind to it.”

“We’ll manage,” Mrs Delver said. “We always have. You don’t need to worry about none of that.” She placed gentle hands on Clover’s shoulders. “Is that why you’ve been looking for work elsewhere? You’re worried about money?”

Clover stepped out of her mother’s grip. “I’ve been looking for new work because I don’t want to spend the rest of my life knee-deep in mud and pig swill. If I don’t spend my days cleaning up after whichever dull, gawping lad I wed, I’ll end with my body broken, no higher up than I am now. Why’s that so difficult to understand?” She got a sinking feeling in her stomach when she looked from her mother’s look of distress to her father’s stormy expression.

“Nice to know what you really think of us, Clover,” he said.

“No, Dad, I din’t mean—”

“What’s wrong with being a homemaker?” Mrs Delver said.

Clover groaned and covered her face with her hands. “Nothing. Look—”

“I broke my body and wasted my life for you lot,” Mr Delver said. “To keep bread on the table. But apparently I shouldn’t’ve bothered.”

“That wasn’t what I meant,” she said, desperation entering her voice despite her best efforts.

“What did you mean, then?” he said. “We’d like to know.”

Clover gripped the back of the chair and took a deep breath in an attempt to regain full control over her emotions. “I’m grateful for what you’ve both done for us. For me.” She looked up at them. They needed to know she did really mean this. “And I’m glad you’ve both got a life you’re happy with, on the whole.”

“How’d you know we’re happy?” Mr Delver said gruffly.

“If you’re not you do a good job of hiding it,” Clover said, and sighed. This was going to be difficult. “But I’m not happy, and I han’t been for a long time. It’s not your fault. I don’t want to be unhappy, but it is as it is. Something has to change because I don’t’ know how much longer I can stand to live like this.”

“Like what?” Mrs Delver said.

“With the noise,” Clover said. “In my ears. In my head.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Mrs Delver said, rubbing a hand up and down her back. “Why din’t you tell us you was feeling this way?”

Clover shrugged, pointedly staring at the floor. “Talk ain’t worth nothing on its own. It’s only action that can change.”

“Where’s this job at?” her mother said gently.

“North Bank Row.”

Mrs Delver bit her lip and looked over at her husband. “One less mouth to feed. Plenty younger get sent to whole other villages to work. And with things so uncertain at the farm…”

“Mr Boffin said it was only the indoor staff that’d be losing their positions,” Mr Delver said, arms folded. “They’ll still need the fields working if they want profit, even if the house is getting shut up.”

“But who knows what the new farmer will say?”

His expression had softened a little, but was still unsympathetic. “You think you’ll be stepping up by taking an indoor position, Clover? Because you’re not.”

Clover looked at him defiantly. “Not yet. Lady’s maids get more coin, an’ they don’t have to do as much cleaning, an’ they stand above the other servants.”

Mr Delver sighed wearily. “Most don’t get to rise to that level.”

“I could,” Clover said firmly. “I have it in me.”

Her father raised his eyebrows. “You’re an arrogant so-an’-so, ain’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing like brutal honesty, is there?”

“I reckon I could be a housekeeper one day,” Clover said, grinning coldly. “Then I’d be the one doing the hiring, an’ I’d have servants waiting on me.”

“No, you couldn’t,” Mr Delver said bluntly. “Housekeepers need to know their letters and numbers so’s they can do the books.”

Clover’s expression didn’t change. “I’ll find a way.” He still didn’t look convinced. “Please, Dad. I’ll send you all my wages. Every farthing.”

Mr Delver covered his eyes with his hand. “I always thought you was the only lass what took after me. But you don’t at all, do you?” He sighed again and put both hands in his pockets. “Well, you’re old enough to make your own mistakes. Do as you will.”

Clover smiled. It wasn’t a cold or cynical smile. “Thank’ee, Dad.”

“Don’t thank me. I’m not proud of myself, an’ I’m certainly not proud of you.”

Mrs Delver let out a sigh and plastered on a smile. “Well. That’s that, then. Well done, Clove. An’ since you two lasses’re here you can help me get started on dinner.”

Meg hadn’t said a word since Clover had given her news. She was standing perfectly still, facing away from the others. Her left arm hung limply at her side, while the other gripped the mop uselessly.

“You all right, lass?” Mr Delver said.

Meg looked over her shoulder at them. Her eyes were vacant. “Yes… Course I am.”

He opened his mouth again, but was interrupted by a crash in the parlour, followed by a yelp from Danny.

“Oh, lawks,” Mrs Delver said, rushing from the room. She reappeared in the doorway a moment later. “He’s put his foot through the upholstery again.”

Mr Delver rolled his eyes and followed her through to the parlour. “For goodness sake, Danny, what’ve we told you about climbing on the furniture?”

Clover turned back to Meg. She was staring at the floor again. “What’s up with you?”

Meg looked at her with wide eyes. Her face was pale and she was swaying slightly where she stood. “You can’t go.”

Clover rolled her eyes and picked up a dish rag that was lying over the back of a chair. “That ain’t up to you.”

“No.” Meg rushed over to her. “I know you’ve been unhappy, an’ I know I’ve been a bit distracted since…” She closed her eyes and swallowed. “…Of late. But, but, that don’t mean you have to go.” She grasped Clover’s arm. “I’ll try and do better, I’ll listen to you, an’ I’ll do my best to understand.”

Clover jerked her arm out of Meg’s grip. “It’s not about you.”

“But you can’t go,” Meg said desperately. “You’re too young.”

Clover scowled at she went to wipe down the sideboard. “How is it that you’re _worse_ than Mum?”

“What’s wrong with Mum?” Meg cried.

“Nothing.”

“She raised us.”

“I know.” Clover looked steadily at her sister. “I know.”

Meg blinked at her through deep blue eyes. “Why?” she said.

Clover folded her arms. “Life ain’t fair. I’m just doing what I can to set it right.”

“For yourself.”

“That’s as much as I can do.”

“But why go about it in secret?” Meg said desperately. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s a puzzle,” Clover said. “It’s not as though anyone’s gotten into a state over nothing.”

“But…” Meg covered her face with her hands. “I could’ve helped you.”

“I’m the one best placed to help myself. Pull yourself together, you’re not a _faunt_.”

Meg had sat down heavily at the table and was staring into space.

Clover sighed. A slightly softer approach was needed. “You’d rather I stayed unhappy, would you?”

This seemed to bring Meg back to her usual self. “Course I don’t.” She got to her feet. “Oh, Clove, I’m sorry.”

She went to hug her, but Clover held out a hand to stop her. “Don’t.”

Meg hung back, looking lost. She started wringing her fingers. Clover turned away and went back to wiping down the sideboard. She was painfully aware of Meg watching her, but purposely avoided looking at her.

“I remember when we was little,” Meg said. Clover could hear the anxiety as she tried to laugh. “You was always afeared when we went out to play with other children. I had to look after you. Now you’re going out finding your own way in the world, an’ I’m still here.”

“People change,” Clover said, hazarding a glance up. “I suppose you’ll leave the nest soon enough, by one means or another.”

“Mm.” Meg swallowed, and sniffed. “I think I’ll see how they’re doing with freeing Danny.” She left the room, but her footsteps took her past the parlour door, to the lasses’ room. Clover slung the cloth over her shoulder and went to fill the firebox.

She turned her head to the door as Mrs Delver bustled back in. “I swear that lad’ll be the death of me. Oh, good, you’re filling the stove.” She walked over to the sideboard and started unwrapping the packet of sausages she’d bought at the market that morning. She glanced around the room. “Where’s Meg gotten to?”

Clover shrugged. “Don’t know.” She hadn’t been surprised that Meg had gone to the lasses’ room. Poppy and Myrtle had gone out right after lunch, and with Maizey out as well that meant it would be empty. Meg couldn’t stand others seeing her cry.


	13. Fixing Fences

“I found one,” Tiger Lily said, opening the door to the morning room with a pencil in her hand. Rob was stood, hands in pockets, looking uncomfortable. “Didn’t you want to sit down?” she said.

He rubbed the back of his head, his face taught with discomfort. “Din’t like to.”

“Oh.”

He nodded at the family tree hanging above the fireplace. “Odd picture. All that writing.”

“It’s not a picture. It’s a family tree,” she said, coming to stand beside him. “The descendants of Isembold Took.”

“Right.” There was a small smile as he studied the canvas. “Nothing wrong with your lot, is there?

Tiger Lily frowned. She wasn’t quite sure what he meant. “No, I suppose not.”

“Whereabouts is your name?”

She walked up to the frame and tapped on the glass. “Here.”

“Huh.” Rob squinted at the writing. “The Thain on here?”

“No. He’s a descendant of Hildigrim.”

“Right.” He frowned, and seemed to pale. “Can we step outside, miss? Get started on the fence.”

“Yes, of course.” She led him through the front door into the chill, where the two pieces of lumber they had picked up from the wood merchant were leaned against the doorframe.

“I was, uh, I was sorry to hear of the Thain’s son,” Rob said as he picked up the planks of wood. “Was you and he close?”

“I didn’t know him.” She briefly explained about her father’s summoning to Buckland.

“They found ‘em yet?”

“Not that I’ve heard. But I suppose you can only do as much as you can do.”

“That’s about right.” Rob smiled weakly. “My mum wanted to send old Gaffer Gamgee something, but Dad said we couldn’t afford it.”

“Oh.” Tiger Lily had had a brief look at the letter from the Thain, and remembered an off-hand mention that her three cousins had been accompanied by a Hobbit in the service of Mr Baggins. She brushed a loose lock of hair out of her face. “Did you know Mr, uh, Mr Gamgee, or…?” She wasn’t sure if it was acceptable to ask this—to assume that he didn’t know any of the other Hobbits who had disappeared, or that he would know Mr Gamgee just because they were both working-hobbits. She wasn’t even sure his name _was_ ‘Mr Gamgee’.

Rob didn’t seem to take any offence, shrugging. “Met ‘im once or twice. Seemed steady enough.”

Tiger Lily nodded, but was preoccupied by his complexion, and the stiffness in his shoulders. “You’re upset.”

“I’m all right.” He smiled unconvincingly. “A bit grand for me, is all. Din’t realise how many Tooks there are.”

“Oh…” They turned the corner to walk along the side of the smial. “You must have a family tree that’s just as… grand. All people must do, when you think about it. Everyone has two parents, and four grandparents, and eight great-grandparents and so on.” She hesitated. “Unless some of them married cousins, I suppose.”

He snickered. “I reckon so. But my mum don’t talk to her family no more, an’ my dad don’t have no brothers or sisters so that’s that. Don’t remember my grandad too well. Grandma died the summer just gone.” He sniffed.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“She had a good go of it, I guess.” He shifted his grip on the boards.

“Can you manage there?”

“I’m all right.”

“Don’t your parents have any cousins? Aunts, uncles?”

“Don’t know about Mum. Dad has some, I think, but they’re all in Little Delving.”

They stopped by the gap in the fence, where Rob walked off the lawn and rested the planks on the ground. “How’d this happen, anyway?”

“Oh. Rowley—that is, Master Sango—tried to climb over and the wood was soft from the rain.”

Rob raised a sceptical eyebrow as he held one of the planks against the gap. “Why’d he do that? Here, help me hold it steady.”

Tiger Lily took hold of the board as Rob adjusted the angle. “Do you need the pencil?”

“Mmm.” Rob’s brow was creased with concentration as he marked the plank. “Cheers.” He leaned it against one of the fence posts and picked up the other. Tiger Lily held this one without being told. “Why din’t he use the gate?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said wearily. “Usually he does it because it’s the quickest route from my window.”

Rob looked up at her sharply, his eyebrows raised. “You what?”

“My window…” She glanced back at the window, embedded in the bank. “Sometimes he goes there to talk to me if it’s late.”

“Oh. Right.” Rob turned his attention back to marking out the wood. Tiger Lily noticed the spots of red on the tips of his ears and her stomach dropped away.

“Nothing sordid!” she said, her face becoming hot. “It really is just—”

“I get it.” He was looking very earnestly at the planks of wood as he compared it to one on another section of the fence. “They’re going to need planing down a bit. How similar do you want ‘em to the others?”

“I think Mother wants them fairly uniform, but as it’s at the side it doesn’t matter too much if they’re a bit out.”

“Right.” He stood, picking the wood up again. “You said you had tools?”

“Yes. This way.” She led him along the path to the partition between the garden and yard, holding the gate open for him.

She followed the well-trodden path to a little shed at the back of the bank. “Here we are,” she said as she opened the shed door.

Rob let out a low whistle as they stepped inside. All along one wall was a rack, filled with long pieces of wood, cut into quarters. There were a couple of workbenches, tools scattered along them. The floor was covered in wood dust “Couldn’t we’ve used one of these?” he said, knocking a knuckle against one of the pieces of wood in the rack.

“Oh, no. No. They’re to make bows with.” She saw the questioning look Rob was giving her and became flustered. “It’s all yew or elm, and it has to have the right amount of sapwood and heartwood, you see. It would be a shame to waste it on a fence.”

The questioning look disappeared and the corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “You know a bit about this for someone who don’t hunt.”

Tiger Lily did her best to remain composed, but started fidgeting with her fingers. “Yes. Well. One picks things up.”

“Mm-hm.” Rob said, walking up to one of the workbenches and turning the handle of the vice to open its jaws.

Tiger Lily watched silently as he started to saw through the wood. It was painful to watch him working while she just stood. She wanted to help. Her fingers twitched restlessly. Finally it became too much. Rob looked askance at her as she picked up the other plank of wood and clamped it in place with the vice on the other worktable. “You all right there, miss?”

“Oh, yes.” She smiled sadly at him. “It will get done quicker with both of us working on it.”

“S’pose so…” he said, pausing in his work to watch her. “You know what you’re doing?”

“Well enough, thank you.”

He didn’t look convinced. “It’s just if you hurt yourself, an’ I’m the only one here, it’ll be me what’s—”

“I shan’t hurt myself. Thank you,” Tiger Lily said with a finality that silenced Rob, though she could still see him glancing at her every few seconds in her peripheral vision. She did her best to ignore it and focus on what she was doing—or she _would_ hurt herself. There was a clunking sound as Rob finished sawing. She heard the sound of him running a plane over the board. Tiger Lily kept her eyes firmly down as she finished her sawing.

Rob paused in his work, rubbing his mouth with a large forearm. “You’ll need a jack plane to get the width down. It’s the one—”

Tiger Lily didn’t speak as she reached for the plane before he had finished speaking, smiling faintly. She couldn’t interpret the way he was looking at her. “Were you going to use a smoothing plane to finish or…?”

“Weren’t planning to, no.”

“All right.” She carefully took the plane in both hands and began to run it down the plank, curling slivers of wood falling to the floor as she did.

Rob finished well before her, and stood leaning against the wall with his arms folded. She still couldn’t decipher his expression and it was irritating her. It was sort of amused… but not quite. She wiped her brow, damp with sweat.

“You want a hand there?” he said.

She paused, panting slightly. “No, thank you.” She set the plane down to see how close she was to being done. She found the pencil mark on the side of the plank and sighed. Nearly there.

She glanced at Rob again as she picked up the plane again. She wished he would say something. “Are you well?”

“Reckon so.”

She looked back down and pulled the plane down the wood, willing him to look away.

“You do hunt, don’t you?”

She brought the plane to an abrupt halt and looked over her shoulder again, her heart thumping. “No, I don’t.”

He scoffed. “Come off it. You expect me to believe you learnt this from watching your dad? You’ve held a plane before. I can tell.”

She scowled and looked down, determined not to look up at him again. “I don’t shoot.”

“Did you ever?”

“That’s none of your business,” she said sharply. For a while the only sound was that of the planing.

“Ain’t no shame in it,” Rob said.

“There is shame!” she said, looking at him again and trembling with emotion. “An endless amount of it. Now if you don’t mind, I’d rather not cut my fingers off.”

Neither of them said anything else until Tiger Lily was finished, finally setting the plane down on the workbench. “So that’s that done,” she said, twisting the handle of the vice to release the wood. “I’m, uh, I’m sorry for snapping at you.”

He shrugged as he collected up the planks. “No harm done. Can’t really complain after… when we was walking back from Hobbiton.”

“That’s forgotten,” she said, picking up the hammer and a box of nails. “Have you had any trouble with Rico recently?”

“Not so much of late. Mayhap he don’t fancy his chances now Mr Boffin’s letting the farm go.”

Tiger Lily stared at him. There was nothing in his expression or tone to suggest he was joking. “You wouldn’t actually… _beat_ him, would you?”

Rob looked at her apologetically. “I’ll try not to.”

The ponies that were grazing in the yard followed them as they walked back to the partition. Rob continually glanced over his shoulder at them, and didn’t stop until they were in the garden again, with the gate firmly closed.

“What’s wrong?”

Rob knelt down by the damaged section of the fence and looked uncertainly back over at the ponies. “Hate ponies. One kicked me down the farm once.”

“Ooh.” Tiger Lily chewed her bottom lip in sympathy. “Were you all right?”

“Not very. Couldn’t work for weeks. Could you help me hold it again?” He held the first board up between the fence posts.

Tiger Lily did as he said and glanced over at the ponies, who were now watching them forlornly over the partition. “I can see how that would put one off.” She looked back down at Rob, who was shifting the board to make sure it was straight, a nail clamped between his teeth “Don’t do that,” she said instinctively.

He gave her a questioning look, one eyebrow raised. “Eh?”

“Don’t put the nails in your mouth,” Tiger Lily said. “It’s disgusting.”

Rob gave her a withering look and removed it. “I’ve done this before, lass.”

“But what if you sneeze?”

“I won’t sneeze,” he said and replaced the nail.

Tiger Lily smiled. “Are you a seer, then?”

He grinned through the nail and removed it again. “Aye. Seer of sneezes.” He sighed and dropped it back into the box. “All right, then. If it’ll make you less fretful.”

Tiger Lily tried to think of something else to say as Rob started hammering the nails in. “Is that why your family name is Delver? Because your family came from Little Delving?”

“Mm. Grandad came here afore my dad was born.”

“Mine too. It’s not nice being separated from the rest of your family.”

“I ain’t wanting for family, miss.”

She shook her head. “No, of course. Sorry. Are you the eldest?”

“Fifth,” Rob said, knocking in the nail. “There’s Meg, Jonson, Jack, Clover, me, Maizey, Hender, Poppy, Myrtle, Danny, Fastad and Martin.”

“Gosh. You’ll have a lot of nieces and nephews.”

“Need in-laws for that. An’ our Meg’s only coming of age in a couple of days so…” He picked up another nail and started hammering it in. “So won’t be thinking about that for a while.”

Tiger Lily pursed her lips. “So… if your eldest sibling’s only just of age, that would make you…?” she said, trying to sound as casual as possible.

“Twenty-seven.”

Twenty-seven. He had seemed older than her…

Rob finished hammering the board in and licked his top lip. “Why’re you wanting to know my age, miss?”

Tiger Lily drew herself up. “I’m only making small talk, Master Rob.”

A wily grin spread across his face. “That so? How old’re you, then?”

“It’s impolite to ask a lady her age.”

“I’ll ‘ave to guess then,” he said, scratching his chin. “Twenty-four, twenty-five?”

“I’m twenty-seven, thank you very much!”

Rob jumped back at her suddenly shrill tone. He saw her expression and snorted, covering his eyes with a calloused hand. “I weren’t that far out. No need to take offence.”

Tiger Lily scowled and folded her arms. “There’s a world of difference between being twenty-four and being twenty-seven.”

“Sorry, miss,” he said, grinning at her. “Have pity.”

She smiled pertly, and cast her eyes down. “Well, I suppose if you’re terribly sorry…”

“I reckon I am.”

She looked back up at Rob, and noticed for the first time that his eyes, while brown, were touched with hazel. His nose was slightly crooked, and his jawline strong. Not handsome as such, but not homely either. She was vaguely aware that there was some difference in the way she interacted with Rob compared to her interactions with other lads. There was an easy availability with Rob that simply wasn’t there with the others. What exactly that availability was, though—and what it meant—she wasn’t sure.

His grin disappeared and he sat back on his haunches and sighed. “This is really bloody stupid.”

Her own smile fell in an instant. “What is?”

“All of it.” He looked guiltily at her. “My mum an’ dad said I should be wary of you. Said you could be trouble.”

“Oh. Sorry.” She bit her lip. “I don’t want to be trouble.”

“We’d be best off saying our goodbyes.”

Tiger Lily looked down and nodded, pursing her lips. “Yes. You’re right.”

The jarring sound of the hammer cut through the air as they got started ton the second connecting board. Rob wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“Couldn’t we just see each other one last time?” she blurted. “It doesn’t count if we know it’s going to be the last we see each other, and we could meet somewhere out of the way if that made you feel safer.”

Rob finally lifted his eyes. “Why don’t it count?”

Tiger Lily sighed and looked up. “Because… because it doesn’t.”

His expression relaxed into a soft half-smile. “You’re an odd lass.”

“Sorry.”

“I meant nice odd.”

“Oh.” She smiled. “Does that mean we can see each other again?”

“I reckon there ain’t no harm in it. If it’s the last time. Next Wednesday at six all right this time?”

“Definitely. The same place we met last week?”

“All right with me.”

“Good,” she said, and smiled foolishly. “Would you like to come in for tea when we’re finished?”

“Hello?” a voice said.

Tiger Lily turned her head towards the sound, and smiled in puzzlement as she saw Sango standing uncertainly at the far end of the garden. “Hello, Rowley.”

Sango smiled uncertainly and approached. “Sorry for trespassing, but I heard your voice.” He looked at Rob confusedly. “Aren’t you one of the Delvers?”

“I am, sir. Rob, sir,” he said with a nod.

Sango closed his eyes. “Yes, of course. How are you?”

“Can’t complain, sir.”

“I went up to the farm earlier, but you were out,” Tiger Lily said.

“Yes, I was with Lavender. Sorry to have deserted you.”

“No need to be sorry, I’ve been in good company.” She looked at Rob and smiled.

Sango nodded uncertainly. “I just thought I’d put my head in to see how you are, given the day. But it seems you’re busy,” he said, looking at Rob.

“A bit,” Tiger Lily said. It occurred to her that this was the first time in years that she had needed to turn Sango away because of a prior social engagement. He didn’t look all that happy about it. “Sorry. I was about to make some tea, though, would you like some?”

“I can put the kettle on. But could you show me where it is?”

“Yes, of course. Can I let go?” she said, looking at Rob.

“Aye. It’ll keep in place.”

“I’ll only be a moment.” She slipped through the door that led straight to the kitchen, Sango following behind her. The sudden warmth brought a rush of blood to her cheeks. She started opening cupboards in search of the kettle while Sango set about filling the stove.

“It’s nice to do things, isn’t it?” she said as she started to fill the kettle with water from the pump at the sink. “To actually put your hand to something and _make_. I mean, not that I don’t do things usually, but practical things not so much…” She hesitated. “I’ve lost track of my sentence.” She glanced over her shoulder at Sango, who was just throwing a lit match into the firebox. She heaved the kettle onto the stove. “What were we talking about?”

“‘We’ rather implies that I was making some contributions,” Sango said. He looked oddly drained.

Tiger Lily grinned and moved the biscuit barrel from the sideboard to the table at the centre of the room. “It’s so nice to talk to someone new. He makes me feel all strange.”

Sango’s eyebrows rose up his head. “Strange?”

“Yes. It’s sort of, um—” She closed her eyes. “It’s sort of like the feeling you have before Lithe.” She opened her them. “And there’s something else. Something I don’t have the words for.” She rushed to Sango, taking his hands. “It’s like anything could happen.”

Sango smiled. “What sort of anything?”

She laughed. “Anything! That’s why it’s called ‘anything’.”

“Tills, you’re scaring me.”

Tiger Lily stopped, and realised that Sango’s smile wasn’t reaching his eyes and his voice was trembling. “What’s wrong?”

He looked down at their hands and shook his head. “You just need to calm down a bit.”

She withdrew her hands and smoothed down her skirt, swallowing. “Sorry.”

Sango sighed and leaned on the table. “You seem to be having a nice time with Master Rob.”

Tiger Lily smiled uncertainly. “I am. I enjoy his company.”

“Mmm.” He looked at the table, scratching at the grain of the wood. “Why is it all right for you to spend time with him unaccompanied, but not me?”

Tiger Lily froze. She hadn’t considered this. “Well… no one thinks Master Rob and I are courting.”

Sango pressed is tongue to the roof of his mouth. “Rico did. I had to correct him.”

“Oh.” She shuffled her feet nervously. “Sorry.”

“You’re forgiven. Will you start taking a chaperone with you now?”

She fidgeted. It wasn’t possible to answer that question in a way she liked. “I don’t think Mother or Opal would agree to it.”

“Maybe there’s a reason for that.”

She folded her arms, feeling suddenly defensive. “Why are you talking like this? I don’t understand… You knew I wanted a new friend. And I think… I think he might like me. Actually like me. I’m not sure why.” She laughed in the hope that he would interpret this as a joke.

“I do wish you wouldn’t talk about yourself like that.” He sighed. “I’m sorry for being a pain. It’s just that for a moment I was worried you might pursue a courtship with him.” He looked at her seriously. “You wouldn’t, would you? You know that would be a terribly silly thing to do.”

Tiger Lily forced her mouth into what she hoped was a convincing smile. “Of course I wouldn’t.”

He face relaxed into its usual soppy grin. “I knew you wouldn’t really, I just wanted to make sure. One of us has to be the sensible one, or we’re all done for.”

She did her best to maintain her smile, but her heart wasn’t in it. “You could be the sensible one if you wanted.”

“That’s for better Hobbits than I,” he said, leaving the room. “I’ll see myself out.”

Tiger Lily watched him go. The sensible thing would be to say nothing more. There was no point in stirring things up. “What about Lavender?” she said.

Sango hesitated at the doorway, and turned to look at her. “I’m sorry?”

“If I were considering a courtship with Master Rob, which I’m not, why is that sillier than you courting Lavender?” He opened his mouth to reply, but she interrupted. “I’ve asked Mother already and she wouldn’t tell me, so that leaves you.”

Sango groaned and looked away. “I can’t. It’s not modest.”

“Please, Rowley…”

“I really don’t want to go against your mother’s wishes,” he said. “She might say I can’t see you anymore.”

This idea was incomprehensible. For her and Sango to be separated. It would be like losing a part of herself. “No,” she said, putting a hand on the table to steady herself as her mouth went dry.

He smiled sadly at her. “Have a nice evening.”

“You too.”

As he left the room she realised that the kettle was whistling and cursed internally, covering her hand with a dish rag to lift it off the stove. She looked up from pouring into the teapot when the door to the garden opened. “Hello, Master Rob,” she said, smiling weakly.

“Miss Tiger Lily,” he said, holding his hands out over the stove to bring some warmth back into them. “All’s done. Hammer and nails’re back in the shed. Hope you din’t mind me putting ‘em back myself.”

“No. It’s very kind, thank you. Do sit down,” she said, gesturing to the chair across from her as she clattered with the teacups and strainers. She remembered his aversion to sitting in the morning room and added, “Unless you feel more comfortable standing, of course.”

Rob eased himself into one of the wooden chairs that surrounded the table. “Don’t reckon there’s much chance of me dirtying these.”

Tiger Lily froze and looked up at him in sinking hopelessness. “That was the reason you didn’t want to sit in the morning room?”

He shrugged, looking at the table. “In part.”

“Oh, Rob…”

He smirked. “‘Rob’ now, is it?”

She inhaled as she passed him his tea. “I apologise, _Master_ Rob. But you’re free to sit where you choose. You’re my…” Her what? Acquaintance, friend, or something else entirely? “…Associate?”

He chuckled. “If you like. I din’t feel comfortable, that’s all. You got any milk?”

“Oh. Yes.”

As Tiger Lily disappeared into the pantry Rob took the opportunity to examine his surroundings. The teaspoon in the sugar bowl was of untarnished silver, and had a little floral design around the handle. For the matter, the sugar bowl itself also had a floral design. The teacups were so delicate you could see through them. It occurred to Rob that this kitchen was much nicer than any room in his own home. The floors were free of rot, and everything had a neat newness to it.

He made an internal note to never come in here again.

There was the sound of a door opening somewhere in the smial and then the pattering of feet. A small Hobbit pushed open the kitchen door, but stopped short when he saw Rob. He was a lad with dark hair that fell in loose curls around his ears, about the same age as the twins. Rob noted the features he shared with Tiger Lily: the same shapeless nose, soft brown eyes and dark complexion—darker than his own, even with his outdoor work.

“You’d be Master Bandobold, then,” Rob said.

“Are you here to repair the fence?” Bandobold said.

Rob scowled. “Nice to meet you too. I’d’ve got beat for that when I was your age.”

“Here we are.” Tiger Lily emerged from the pantry with a jug of milk.

“You shouldn’t speak like that to me,” Bandobold said, ignoring Tiger Lily.

“Don’t be rude,” Tiger Lily said.

“Well, he shouldn’t,” Bandobold said. “I _am_ in line for the Thainship.”

“Not really.” Tiger Lily sat lightly in the chair opposite Rob and cast him a twinkling look. “He’s thirtieth in line.”

“Thirty-third, actually,” Bandobold said, fishing three pieces of shortbread from the open biscuit barrel.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” she said, sipping her tea. “But you know that’s further down, don’t you?”

“I know _that_. But if you’re going to make fun of me then you should at least make sure you’re in the right.”

“I have more important things to remember than the line of succession. Is Mother home too?”

“She started talking to Mrs Diggle so I ran on ahead,” he said before running out of the room with a bouncing step.

Tiger Lily looked back over at Rob. “Sorry.”

“Cocky thing, ain’t ‘e?”

“Well, he knows he’s important. The only male heir of the Holtbold line. Great things are expected of him.” She rolled her eyes as she drank her tea.

“What things?”

“The usual: more money, more books, more land. To win favour with the Thain. And to carry the line on, of course, with a lady of good breeding.”

“Thirty-third…” Rob said, brow creased. “Not much chance of your dad becoming Thain, then.”

She grinned and shook her head. “None at all. And a good thing, too. He’d… he’d hate it.” She swallowed and started absentmindedly tapping the side of her tea cup. “I suppose Uncle Hortenbold might make a good Thain. He always knows what to do when things go wrong and he’s stern enough to hold his ground. Not that I think Father would be a bad Thain, but he needs help to keep on top of his business and he worries easily. If he were Thain he would have a lot more to worry about and everyone would be depending on him and that would worry him even more. It’s not a nice thought.” She paused for breath. “Sorry. Why should you care about all of that?”

Rob shrugged. “Sometimes… it’s nice just to talk.”

She smiled. “Yes.” She sipped her tea again and took a piece of shortbread. “Do help yourself.”

Slowly he tilted the biscuit barrel to look inside. “You make these?”

“No. Mother. If I made them they’d crumble as soon as you touched them,” Tiger Lily said with a laugh.

“I ain’t really hungry,” he said. “But could I… Could I take some for the little’uns?”

“Yes, of course.”

Rob put a hand into the barrel, brought out four pieces of shortbread and put them in his pocket. He reasoned it wasn’t charity if they had it lying around anyway, and it wasn’t unchivalrous if it was for the children.

Tiger Lily smiled sadly. She wouldn’t think of Bandobold if she were in Rob’s place. Her ears pricked at the sound of the front door opening “Mother’s home,” she said.

Rob stood, nearly knocking over his chair. “I’d best be off, miss.”

Tiger Lily rose from her own seat, keeping her hands clasped. “Of course.” She led him back through to the garden. She half-smiled when she saw him visibly relax to be out in the open air. “There’s no need to be quite so frightened. She’s not vicious.”

He smiled sheepishly at her. “Don’t want her to think I’m corrupting her lass.”

“Mmm.” Tiger Lily pulled the door to behind them. “Would you prefer to leave out of the side gate?” She nodded at the gate in question. They would have to go through the yard to get to it. “Don’t worry, I can protect you from the ponies.”

He laughed gruffly. “All right then.”

They walked through the yard together and Tiger Lily closed the gate between them.

“See you next Wednesday then,” he said.

“Yes. That’s fine. Thank you for the fence.”

“No trouble, lass.” He tugged his cap and walked away.

Tiger Lily turned as she felt a nudge against her shoulder to find one of the ponies stood behind her. “What do you want, Posy?” she cooed, scratching the pony between its ears. It was strange. There was too much energy, and everything was suddenly so confusing. She sighed and hid her face in Posy’s neck. _What am I doing?_


	14. Of an Age

Meg huffed and put her hands on her hips. “There’s not enough.”

“It’s fine,” Mrs Delver said, glancing at the slices of cake Meg had spaced out over the table. “Just cut ‘em down the middle.”

“I suppose I could.” Meg sighed. “Starting to think I shouldn’t’ve made a cake at all.” There hadn’t been much flour at the grocer’s, which had contributed to the small size of her birthday offering just as much as the family’s budget.

“Don’t be silly,” her mother said.

“But will Maizey be all right on her birthday?”

“Don’t you be worrying yourself about that. There’s two wage-days atween now and then. Don’t squirm, Marty, you’ll get soap in your eyes.”

“I don’t like having my hair washed,” Martin said, keeping his eyes tight shut as Mrs Delver lathered the soapy water into his roots.

“You’ll like it even less when your eyes are stinging.”

Meg picked up the knife and started to cut the pieces in half. “I suppose I could’ve made something out of one of my old skirts.”

“That wouldn’t’ve helped no one.”

“I give people flowers,” Fastad whispered, as though to himself. He was sat at the other side of the table from Meg, quietly pushing a clumsily-carved wooden horse up and down the table top. A towel was draped over his shoulders to protect his shirt from is dripping hair.

“Well, you and Danny were born in the summer, weren’t you? There aren’t any flowers blooming now.” She smiled. “You’re lucky. Flowers don’t cost nothing.”

“Sorry, lass. It wasn’t intentional.” Mrs Delver smiled over her shoulder. “You’ve got the right colouring for autumn. Hair like horse-chestnuts.”

“Mm.” Meg stood back and surveyed her work. “That’s still only twelve pieces.”

“I can go without if it’ll make things easier.”

“We’re not having that. I’ll just have to halve ‘em again.”

“You don’t need that many,” Mrs Delver said, and laughed. “Who’re you planning on giving ‘em to?”

Meg flushed slightly. “Friends. I won’t need to halve all of ‘em. Just a couple. I think.” She frowned as she tried to work the maths out. She lifted her had as the front door opened. “That you, Clove?”

“Aye.”

“Did you manage to get your reference in, love?” Mrs Delver said.

Clover came into view, folding her arms and leaning in the doorway. “I did. Got measured for a uniform too.” She grimaced.

Mrs Delver smiled. “Reminds me of when I was little. I used to go to the seamstress’s and watch the fine ladies getting measured for their gowns.”

“It’s not quite the same thing, Mum,” Clover said.

Meg wasn’t listening. Her face was screwed up in concentration as she looked at the pieces of cake. She sighed again as she decided to take the easy road. “Clover, how much is two lots of twelve again—eighteen or twenty-four?”

“Twenty-four.”

“So how do I get sixteen pieces?”

Clover went to stand beside her. “You’d cut four pieces in half. D’you see?”

Meg nodded slowly. “I think so… Then the little’uns can have full pieces and I can give the smaller ones to…” She hesitated, going through the list of friends and family in her mind to try and decide who it would be acceptable to give a half-portion to, and couldn’t come up with an answer. It seemed unfair no matter who she chose. She leaned on the table and pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth. “Ah.”

Mrs Delver chuckled as she slowly poured a jug of water over Martin’s hair, using her left hand to work the knots out. “You’ve always been soft.”

Meg cast her mother a disgruntled look. “Nothing wrong with soft.”

“Never said there was.”

Meg picked up the knife. “I’ll cut ‘em all in half and give what’s left over to Mr Tavenner.” She grinned. “To apologise for the intrusion.”

“Reckon he’ll appreciate that. Me an’ Widow Stabler reckon his wife’s with child again. Heather won’t give us a straight answer, of course.” She started towelling down Martin’s hair. “Don’t know how they manage, they’ve got so many.”

Meg and Clover exchanged amused sidelong glances and said nothing.

When Meg had finished halving the cake slices she stood back. “Right. I think I’m done here.” She picked up a piece and handed it to Fastad. “Here, lad. You can be the first to try.” Fastad took the cake from her. It was so small that he was able to fit the entire piece in his mouth without any trouble. There was a thoughtful expression on his face as he chewed. When it became obvious he wouldn’t say anything more without prompting she said, “Nice?”

He nodded, and swallowed.

“Good.” Meg smiled sadly. “Mayhap anything tastes nice when it’s been weeks since your last sweet.”

“Had some shortbread on Friday,” he said.

“Fastad!” Martin said, sitting forward and jerking his head away the towel. “You weren’t supposed to tell.”

“Is that right?” Mrs Delver said, putting one hand on her waist and scowling down at Martin. “Where’d you get the shortbread from, Fastad?”

“Don’t!” Martin said.

“Hush.” She put a hand on Martin’s shoulder. “Fastad?”

“Rob gave it us,” he said quietly. “Said we weren’t to tell you.”

“Just you two?”

“Me, Danny, Myrtle and Martin.”

Meg and Mrs Delver exchanged glances.

“Didn’t pinch ‘em, did he?” Clover said.

“No,” Mrs Delver said firmly. “Rob’s a good lad.”

“I think Farmer Westcott might have something to say to you about that,” Clover said.

Mrs Delver sniffed and went back to drying Martin’s hair. “That wasn’t his fault.”

“It takes two.”

“Chastity Westcott is misnamed, and that’s all I’m saying about that.” She snapped her fingers. “I know. That bloody Took.”

“Steady on, Mum, it’s not that bad. Here, have some cake,” Meg said, handing her a slice.

“Can I have some?” Martin said, making to get up from the seat.

Mrs Delver put a firm hand on his shoulder to keep him in place. “Let me see your hands.”

“You din’t ask to see Fastad’s hands.”

“Don’t get clever with me, I’m not in the mood.” She took one of his hands, turning it over to inspect it. “Go to the wash stand, they’re filthy.”

“But, Mum—”

“I don’t care. Wash your hands.”

Martin groaned and went to wash the wash stand as Mrs Delver put the towel around his shoulders.

“I might have to have a word with the little’uns,” she said. “If Rob’s going to chase a Took, I’d rather the whole village didn’t know of it.”

Meg smiled as she began to wrap the slices of cake with brown paper and string, and putting them into a basket. “It’s not that bad is it, Mum?”

“It’s what’s best. Keep everything quiet, an’ then when it goes sour no one else need know of it.”

“Mahap it won’t go sour,” Clover said as she started to help Meg with the wrapping. “Mayhap you’ll find yourself with a Took daughter.”

Mrs Delver wrinkled her nose. “On Friday the first.”

“How many are we taking?” Clover said, glancing over at Meg.

“Need to leave enough for the little’uns. Not Fastad. Or Martin,” she said as the youngest Delver took his own piece. “That’s what?”

“Five, if we’re counting Hender and Poppy as little’uns.”

“We are. So all the rest we’re taking with us to the _Dragon_.”

“Here, I’ll give you a hand,” Mrs Delver said, tearing off a piece of the paper and looked at Meg with a melancholy fondness. “Still can’t believe you’re thirty-three. Don’t seem like five minutes since I was coming of age myself. I couldn’t sleep that night—your father and me were going to go down the registrar’s first thing to arrange the wedding. I thought they might be able to wed us there an’ then…”

Clover noticed that Meg’s lips were very tightly pursed. Mrs Delver didn’t seemed to have noticed, though, as she continued, “It’ll be Jonson next year. Then Jack the year after that. Then you.” She glanced at Clover.

“One day it’ll be Martin,” Clover said.

Meg shuddered.

The front door opened, followed by the sound of heavy footfall, and Rob appeared in the doorway. “Thought you might’ve already set off,” he said.

“No. You’re just in time,” Meg said, smiling at him.

“Hello, Bordon,” Mrs Delver said in a tight voice. “Nice of you to treat the little’uns.”

His expression went blank. “What?”

“Anything you’d like to tell me?”

“Uh…”

“Well, that’s us finished,” Meg said quickly, lifting the basket up.

“Come on, lad,” Clover said, practically shoving Rob towards the front door.

“What was she talking about?” he said when all three were outside.

“Nothing important,” Meg said, pulling the door to. “Let’s head off _._ ”

“What’s the plan for when we get there?” Rob said, putting his hands in his pockets as they walked.

“How’d you mean?” Meg said.

“Paying for drinks.”

“Think Mr Tavenner’ll accept payment in cake?” Clover said with a wry smile.

“He won’t need to,” Meg said. She stopped in the road and brought something out of her pocket. In the moonlight Clover could see the glint of coins.

“I wasn’t sure what to do with ‘em,” Meg said absently. “But Lavender bought me a drink the night after harvest… I don’t want to rely on the kindness of others.”

Clover tried to make out Meg’s expression, but her face was turned away from her, staring down at the money in her hand. “Where’d you get ‘em from, Meg?” she asked quietly.

Meg seemed to snap out of whatever trance she had been in, and put the coins back in her pocket. “Picked ‘em up from the ground.” She started to walk again. Her voice was light and breezy. “I know Mum an’ Dad wouldn’t approve, but I don’t see the harm in it. It’s only a few coppers.”

Clover followed slowly. She could see by his face that Rob didn’t understand. He was looking at her as though he was waiting for her to explain it to him. She turned away, focussing on Meg who was gaining ground ahead of them, and resigned herself to the evening.

* * *

Meg stepped into the _Green Dragon_ with a basket on the crook of her arm. She glanced around the inn Clover and Rob followed her. “There’s a lot in tonight,” she said, scanning the crowd. “I guess Lavender put the word round. There’s Jonson, look.” She pointed to the group of musicians at the side of the room. Their argument was being drowned out by the general chatter of the patrons. Jonson was among them, a riddle drum under his arm, and was busy making his feelings known. Meg didn’t have time to approach before Lavender appeared from the crowd, practically glowing with enthusiasm.

“Happy birthday, Meg,” she said, laughing and pulling Meg into a hug, surprising her.

“Thank you,” Meg said, smiling in bemusement and detaching her. “Already been celebrating, have you?”

“I’m only tipsy.”

“Here, I’ve got something for you.” She gave Lavender one of the small packages in the basket.

“Thank’ee. Sango!” she said, and waved off into the crowd. “Over here!”

Meg heard Clover groan as they saw Sango Boffin making his way towards them. She watched her from the corner of her eye. “Be nice.”

Sango’s smile was similarly drink-addled and he embraced Lavender from behind when he reached the group. “Hello, Delvers. Happy coming of age, Nutmeg.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said, smiling as best she could. This situation was too strange for her to be comfortable. She hoped vaguely that Lavender’s next lad wouldn’t be an employer or a Delver. “Making merry yourself?”

“Oh dear, is it that obvious?” he said with a snicker. “What’s the point of being alive if you can’t make a fool of yourself occasionally?”

“Right you are, sir.”

Music started up, the band having apparently dealt with their differences for the time being. Lavender stuffed the cake in her mouth and started to drag Sango towards them. Whatever she was saying was incomprehensible through the crumbs.

“You hold him down, I’ll find a cudgel,” Clover said.

“Shh!” Meg started to lead them through the crowd towards a free table. “He’s a nice lad.”

“I can’t be doing with people like him, Meg.”

“Mayhap he can’t be doing with people like you. I wonder where Dad is…”

There was something odd in the atmosphere. The male Hobbits were gathered in small groups, having tense conversations around tables; engaged in tense, quick conversations. But there was something else, something more tangible. She turned her face up to Rob. “There’s no smoke,” she said.

“Can’t get no leaf. No one can.”

“Still?” Clover said.

“Aye. Thought I might be able to borrow some here,” he said, looking miserably over the scene as they gathered around the table. “Suppose not.”

“It’ll be all right,” Meg said. “Probably just a bad harvest. It’s been a bit patchy for a while; they’ll get more in soon enough.”

“Guess so,” Rob said, sitting down. “Not sure if folk’ll wait that long. Some of the lads down the farm was talking about making a fuss with old Seller.”

Mr Seller ran the grocer’s from which most of the working Hobbits of Bywater bought their pipe-weed.

“That’s a bit unfair, ain’t it?” Meg said. “He can’t help if he’s got none in.”

“They want to know what the matter is.”

“You a mind to join ‘em?” Clover said.

“Not sure. They asked me to.”

“Don’t. You’ll get yourself into trouble,” Meg said.

Clover shrugged. “But if it’s what he needs to do…”

“But it’s not just about him. Mum’d be beside herself.”

“It don’t concern Mum.”

“I’ll make my mind up when the time comes,” Rob said with a steady conviction.

Clover scowled. “But—”

“That’s enough now,” Meg said, taking a package out of the basket and untying the string. “Open your mouth.”

Clover retained her usual look of being unimpressed with the world in general, and held a hand out.

Meg smiled ruefully and pressed the cake into her hand. “Too dignified for that?”

“Aye. As anyone should be.”

Meg looked at Rob. “What about you?”

Rob gave a small, amused smile and opened his mouth. Meg popped the cake in.

“All right, lad?”

“Mmm.” He covered his mouth with his hand. “Cheers, Meg.”

“Jack’s here,” Clover said, picking at the cake.

Meg turned her head towards the door. Jack was just entering the inn with Nickon and a third lad in tow. She smiled and bit her bottom lip. “Here,” she said, putting a few coins on the table. “Get yourselves a drink.” Without waiting for a reply she started to weave her way between the tables towards the lads, her heart feeling lighter with each step. “You made it, Nick,” she said.

“Charming,” Jack muttered. “Don’t mind me, I’m only your brother.”

Meg smiled and handed him a piece of cake. “Bless. Din’t know you cared so much.” She returned her eyes to Nickon. “Here.” She handed another to him.

He smiled confusedly at her, raising one eyebrow. “I wasn’t expecting nothing, lass. Not like we see much of each other.”

Meg laughed. “Well, you’re a family friend. Mum always says she don’t know where we’d be if not for your mum and dad. Let me buy you a drink.”

He chuckled and looked over at Jack. “You coming?”

“Oh.” Her heart sunk. As she was about to follow Nickon and Jack her attention was momentarily drawn to the third lad, who had said nothing since he had arrived. His face was pale and nervous, and his eyes darted away as she looked at him. There was a shock of red curls on his head. “You not getting a drink with us?”

The red-haired lad coloured with embarrassment and held up a battered wooden fiddle case. “I need to get over to the band.”

Without even thinking she reached into the basket and handed him a piece of cake. “Would you like some?”

Meg had to bite back laughter at his stricken expression. He looked as though she’d suggested they see how angry they could make Farmer Westcott’s prized bull.

“We don’t know each other,” he said.

She did laugh now. “Don’t be silly—there’s more than enough. Enjoy it.” With that she pushed the package into his hand and followed Nickon and Jack to the bar.

“You’ll die penniless,” Jack said.

“But he looked so miserable. I had to do something.” She looked over her shoulder at the red-haired lad, who was being dragged towards the other musicians by Jonson.

“You’re over soft, lass,” Nickon said.

She looked back at him, and smiled her brightest smile. “You’re the second person to tell me that today. But I think there’s worst things to be, don’t you?” Her attention was caught by the gaffer behind the bar. “Hello, Mr Tavenner.”

* * *

Clover sighed and looked over at Rob, who was looking at her with a face that said: What do we do now?

“I don’t know,” Clover said.

Rob drew his eyebrows together in confusion. “Eh?”

Clover didn’t reply, but cast her gaze over the crowd. Her attention rested on a table surrounded by old gaffers, her father and Mr Hobble among them. She could just about make out the word ‘pipe-weed’. She rose from her seat, not looking at Rob as she did. “I’m going to listen in.”

“But—”

“Go and play with the other lads.”

The table was presided over by Farmer Cotton. Venerable and with an inherent air of authority about him, he was the unofficial leader amongst the working Hobbits or Bywater. Clover hovered by the table, listening intently.

“It’s not the worst thing—I’ve never been much of a smoker,” Farmer Westcott said.

“It’s not about the leaf,” Farmer Cotton said, tapping his finger against his mug. “It’s the principle.”

One of the gaffers noticed Clover and pulled his chair back. “Can I help you, lass?” His tone wasn’t hostile or patronising, at least not intentionally. This was a genuine inquiry.

“What’s up with the pipe-weed?” she said.

He looked her up and down. “You’re a smoker, are you?”

Clover drew herself up to her full height, such as it was. “No. Don’t mean I han’t noticed what’s going on.”

He frowned further. “I know you. Ain’t she one of your litter, Jon?”

Farmer Westcott snickered.

Her father looked at him witheringly. “I don’t like your phrasing, Warren.” He turned his eyes towards Clover. “Not sure you’ll be wanting to listen to this, lass, since you’re so keen on the uppers these days.”

“Why? What does it have to do with the uppers?”

“This ain’t the sort of thing you need to worry yourself about,” Mr Warren said.

She resisted responding to this and pulled up a chair and sat down, keeping her expression stern. “I’ve had a long day of work an’ I’d like to know what’s up with the pipe-weed _if that’s all right_.”

“Let her listen, Eldon,” Mr Hobble said. “Sharp as a nail, this one.” He amiably smiled at her.

Clover nodded to him. “Thank you. _”_ She looked back at the assembled gaffers. “Could someone please tell me what’s up with the pipe-weed?”

“Well,” Mr Warren said, laying down his tankard and leaning forward conspiratorially, “my lad works down in the South Farthing. An’ according to him the crop this year was the best he’s seen.”

Clover studied the table top as she thought. “So they’re storing it up?” she said. “Making it seem scarce to… to make us pay more?”

“Mayhap,” Mr Warren said, leaning back. “But according to my lad, they’ve been sending carts down south.”

“Where?”

“Out of the Shire,” Farmer Cotton said.

Clover frowned. Out? This was unfathomable. She knew, in theory, that there were places outside of the Shire, but anything beyond Buckland felt only slightly more real than whatever had existed before the world was made. “Why? Where?”

“Coin,” her father said. “If you’re ever wondering why something is, my lass, the answer’s usually coin.”

“But there’s nothing out there,” Clover said. “Who’s there to sell to?”

“I don’t know, an’ I don’t care neither,” Farmer Cotton said. “All I know is that our lads—and lasses—are working them fields, and their toilings are being sent out for the pleasure of others.”

“Well, that’s how it works, ain’t it?” her father said. “We grow the wheat an’ then we’re sold it back in bread. Elbereth knows I’m not growing rich on my toilings.”

“That’s just the way of things,” Mr Hobble said. “How would you have it?” He winced. “Actually, don’t answer that. We’ll be here all night if we get you started.”

“Very funny, Fendad.”

Clover had only been half-listening to all this. The other half of her mind was somewhere in the South Farthing. “Why would they all band together like that?”

Farmer Westcott looked at her questioningly. “You what?”

She looked back up at the gaffers around the table. “Just one plantation wouldn’t make all that difference, would it? So it’s a lot of plantation owners all doing it together.”

“If they’ve all got wind that there’s money to be made in the wilderness, it’s no surprise,” Farmer Cotton said.

“But who owns the plantations?”

“You think we know that?” Mr Warren said with a scoff.

Mr Hobble leaned forward. “Hornblowers mostly. Sackvilles… The odd Banks.”

Her father rolled his eyes. “Why do you know that?”

“Some of us like to taken an interest in these things, lad.”

Mr Delver sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I wish you’d stop calling me that.” He scowled at Mr Hobble. “Forgetting your place won’t earn you their respect.”

“Don’t talk ill to your elders. ‘Specially not about knowing my place, when you’ve never had regard for yours.”

“What is my bloody place, then? I’m sure you’d love to tell me.”

Mr Warren buried his head in his hands. “Sweet Elbereth, here we go…”

“No respect!” Mr Hobble said, slamming his tankard down on the table. “That’s always been your trouble. After all me and my Heather have done for your lot, even with you being—”

“Being what, Fendad?” Mr Delver said. There was a strange, manic madness in his eyes.

Mr Hobble simmered, taking a sip from his tankard. “From out of the village.”

Mr Delver inhaled audibly. He’d obviously decided he’d won. Now all he needed to do was convince Mr Hobble to agree. “I was born here, Fendad. My Joy wasn’t, I’ll grant you. But to my mind, with a name like ‘Hobble’ I’d fancy your family was from, I don’t know, Hobbiton?”

“ _Hobbiton don’t count!”_

Clover rose from the table and slipped away silently, deciding that any potential for intelligent conversation had ceased for the time being. Rob had moved from where she’d left him, and had joined Egeld Piper and Nibs Cotton in a corner. Her heart died a little as she caught wind of their discussion.

“You could get some good planting there, if someone was to use it.”

“Mm.” Rob sipped from his tankard. “Soil’s good. Proper loamy stuff.”

_Can’t you think of anything better to talk about than dirt?_

She stood beside Rob and prodded him in the side to get his attention. The lads silenced as Rob blinked down at her with his usual expression of blank cluelessness.

“Rob, when you see your Took next could you find out if she knows anyone in pipe-weed?” she said. “I’d like names, preferably.”

Rob frowned. “Wh—”

“I want to find out what’s going on. I think it might be bigger than pipe-weed.”

“But I don’t—”

“Just ask. You don’t know unless you ask.”

“But how—”

“Just use your natural wit an’ charm,” she said, slapping him on the back and walking away. She had spotted Rose at the other end of the inn.

“But…” Rob trailed off and slowly turned back to Egeld and Nibs, who were watching him with raise eyebrows. He cleared his throat and took another draw of beer. “Anyway…”

* * *

Meg was watching her father and Mr Hobble across the inn, but she couldn’t hear what they were saying over the noise of the band. Everyone knew the words, and all the Hobbits sat on that side of the inn were singing along, beating their tankards on the tables in time to the music. Meg wasn’t joining in. She hated this song.

_‘Bout nine months after harvest,_

_A fine wee baby came,_

_Fair Jenny waited patiently,_

_To see Young Drake again._

_Singing, ‘O my love is gone away,_

_Across the seas of green._

_But he’ll come home,_

_With the sea foam,_

_And marry me one day.’_

That was the final verse, and you never found out whether or not Young Drake came back. That was why Meg hated the song. What she really wanted to know was if there was a wedding, all nice and proper.

“Worse’n tweenagers, ain’t they?” Nickon said, sitting next to her and nodding at their fathers, who had both gotten to their feet at this point. Mr Hobble was red in the face.

Meg glanced at him and forced herself to smile. “At least the young’uns are making a better go of it.”

He grinned. “I’ll drink to that.”

She sipped her beer as Nickon took a long draw from his “So how’re you finding being of age?” he said. “Scary as you thought?”

Meg kept her smile and hoped Nickon wouldn’t be able to read any of what she was actually feeling. “Sorry?”

“Jack said you wasn’t looking forward to it.” He rested the side of his head on his hand. “It ain’t that bad. Honestly.”

“I know. It’s not like I thought I’d wake up feeling any different. It’s just…” She sighed and smiled wryly. “Lamenting my lost youth.” She drank from her tankard.

Nickon chuckled. “If you’ve lost your youth what does that say about me?”

Meg looked at the floor. She held her tankard in her lap. “Don’t you ever wish time would just stop? That everything could just stay as it is…” She looked back up at Nickon and found he was watching her. He looked so pitying. She hated it.

“Are you all right, lass?” he said seriously. “Jack said you han’t been well.”

“No. I don’t want to talk about that, actually.” Nickon flinched back at her sharp tone. Meg realised what she had done and panicked. “I’m sorry, Nick,” she said. “That weren’t called for.”

He shrugged and glanced over at the band. “Don’t bother yourself. I guess it must be a bit of an odd time.”

“‘Cus I was meant to be getting wed, you mean?” Meg said. She smiled kindly at him when she saw his discomfort. “I don’t mind talking about Winden. I’m not nursing a broken heart.”

“Mmm.” He drank from his tankard. “How long was you and he courting for, again?”

Meg drew in a deep breath. “Three years.” She laughed when Nickon let out a whistle. Most Hobbits only courted for a year or so before getting married, unless they were tweens who couldn’t get their parent’s permission. “It’s not a long as some. My mum an’ dad courted for… ten years, I think.”

Nickon shook his head. His expression was blank. “I can’t even imagine that. Not sure I’ve ever courted a lass for more’n three weeks, never mind years.”

“You must’ve. Surely.”

Nick looked thoughtfully up at the ceiling. “No… Don’t think so…”

Meg couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. “Don’t think I can imagine _that_. Don’t you want to get wed one day?”

He shrugged. “Mayhap. One day. There’s time for that later, at any rate.”

“Oh.” Meg looked into her tankard, feeling adrift. She turned her head towards Nickon as she heard his chair scrape. He had edged closer to her. But he was looking out into the crowd. She followed his gaze but found nothing of note. Just a little cluster of Hobbits drinking and talking together. Primrose, Master Sango, Jack… She turned back to Nickon and found he was looking directly into her eyes. He was smiling.

“Still, I guess it’s not too early to start,” he said.

* * *

“And then what?”

“She said my getting the position weren’t her doing and that…” Clover smiled to herself. She was walking a little ahead of the others as she recounted her visit to the Grubb’s earlier that day; in particular the less-than-warm reception she’d received from Young Mrs Grubb. “That if I said one word out of turn I’d be out of the smial afore I could think to say a second.”

Lavender’s head lolled forward as she snorted with laughter.

Meg grimaced. “Good luck with that one.”

“I suppose it must be difficult. Being a widow,” Primrose said. She was having to walk arm-in-arm with Lavender to prevent her from veering off the path.

Clover glanced over her shoulder at her. “How’d you know that?”

“Well, you said it was the son what was sat in at the interview. That means he’s the master of the smial, don’t it?”

“I thought so. Din’t like to ask.”

“It’s not too late to change your mind, if you think Mrs Grubb won’t be fair to you,” Meg said.

“No,” Clover said firmly. “She don’t scare me.”

“Do you think Master Boffin will get home all right?” Primrose said, glancing back at the _Dragon_. Its windows stood out as little golden circles against the dark landscape. “He was also quite… besotted.” She looked at Lavender.

Lavender snorted. “He’ll be fine. What’s there to be afraid of?”

“There’s the river,” Meg said.

“He’s a grown lad, he’ll be fine,” Lavender said.

“It ain’t our job to look after him,” Clover said. “If he wants to drink himself stupid that’s up to him.”

“He’s your lad,” Primrose said, looking at her sister. “Shouldn’t you be the one fretting?”

“What do you know about having a lad? Haven’t seen you look at a lad since… For a long time. When was it again…?” She trailed off.

Clover turned her face towards the sky and exhaled. “Silence. Beautiful.”

Meg grinned. “Treasure it. It won’t last long.”

Lavender snickered. “When I come of age I’m going to have the biggest party Bywater’s ever seen. It’ll make Mad Baggins’s birthday look like… like nothing.”

“Don’t let Dad hear you say that,” Primrose said. “He’ll have a fit.”

“He’ll be dead by then anyway, so it won’t matter.”

“Don’t say that.”

“What? I’m only joking,” Lavender said, laughing. “Oh, I know! It was that posh lad what painted Dad’s new sign for him, couple of years back.”

“What?”

“You was giving him looks all day. Elbereth…” She pressed a hand to her forehead. “What was his name?”

“I don’t remember,” Primrose said primly. “And don’t swear. Tonight weren’t about me, it was about Meg.” She looked at the _byrding_ and smiled. “Have you had a good birthday?”

Meg looked over her shoulder at her as they walked, smiling contentedly. “I did. Thank you.”

“It’s good to see you happy,” Clover said quietly.

“I am. Feeling a lot better.” Meg pursed her lips. She couldn’t resist. “Reckon I’ve got my eye on a new lad.”

Clover turned her head towards her sharply.

“Really?” Primrose said, her expression lifting in delight. “I’m glad for you. Who?”

“You know him,” Meg said.

“Don’t be coy,” Clover said. “If you din’t want to tell us who it was, you wouldn’t’ve brought it up in the first place. I hate it when people do that.”

“All right. If you insist.” She stopped walking and turned to face the Hobble sisters, grinning. “I reckon Nick’s got a taking for me.”

Silence. Primrose and Lavender’s faces were frozen in shock. Though, Clover realised, Lavender’s face had been a bit grim, even before Nick’s name had been mentioned.

Lavender laughed uncertainly. “Nick? _Our_ Nick?”

“Aye.”

“Not any other Nick?”

“No.”

“You what?”

“Lavender!” Primrose said in a hushed voice.

Lavender ignored her sister, shouldering her aside. “Really, Meg?”

“What’s wrong with that?” Meg said defensively.

“Well… ain’t it a bit soon after Winden and—”

“And _what_ , Lavender?”

There was a strange look in Meg’s eyes that Clover had never seen before, visible even in the all-encompassing dark. There was anger there, and fear. And grief. A chill went down Clover’s spine.

Lavender’s eyes darted from Meg to Clover, and then to Primrose. She swallowed. “And I din’t think you’d be wanting to walk out with a lad so soon.”

Meg scoffed. “You can talk. You set your sights on Master Sango the _day_ you broke with our Jonson.”

“That’s different.”

“Why?” Meg said, glowering at Lavender.

“Because you’re not me.” There was defeat in her voice. “Meg, I really don’t think Nick is the lad for you.”

Meg sighed. She looked over at Primrose and realised she was smiling in the politest way possible. She groaned. “Not you too, Rose.”

“Sorry. It’s just that you’ve been talking about getting wed an’ having little’uns since you were a teenager,” Primrose said in a panicky voice. “An’ I’m not sure Nick can give you what you need. But that don’t mean you never have to look his way…”

“It’s late,” Meg said. “We should get going. Come on, Clover.”

She brushed past her sister, taking the path back to their smial. Clover cast an apologetic glance at the Hobble sisters. “You all right getting her home, Rose?”

“I can hear you,” Lavender said.

“We’ll be fine.” Primrose’s eyebrows were drawn together with concern. “Is Meg all right?” she whispered.

Clover shrugged and turned away. Meg was tall for a lass, and it took Clover too much time and effort to catch up to her.

“Don’t say anything,” Meg said. Her voice was tight.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“But you were thinking. You’re always thinking.”

“You can’t stop me from thinking, Meg.”

Meg’s face was screwed up with discomfort. “I’m fine. Why won’t everyone just listen when I say I’m fine?”

“Keep saying it. The more you do the more rational you sound.”

“Be quiet.”

They took a left, bringing them onto East Warren Lane.

Clover pursed her lips. There was something niggling her. “What was Lavender going to say?”

“What?”

“She said it was too soon after—”

“It’s not too soon.”

“That she _thought_ it was too soon after Winden, and something else. What else, Meg?” She watched her sister’s face carefully.

“Nothing,” Meg said.

Clover kept her gaze focussed on her. “You’re lying.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You did it again.”

“By the—” Meg stopped where she stood and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“You’re tight-lipped for such a busybody.”

“I could say just the same of you,” Meg snapped and marched off.

“You could,” Clover said, following her.

“I bloody hate arguing with you. You always just agree with whatever anyone calls you.”

“I know I’m not a nice person, Meg.”

Meg didn’t reply, and Clover decided not to keep stirring things up. She didn’t really want to argue with her sister, especially not on her birthday. Even if Meg was being hard-headed. It was Clover that reached home first, but when she turned to hold the door open for Meg she found her elder sister lingering by the gate.

“You are a good person, Clove,” she said quietly.

Clover shrugged, unconcerned. “Never said I wasn’t. Nice and good ain’t the same thing.”

Meg sagged forward on the fence post. “I’ve only been an adult for a day, an’ I’ve already made a mess of it.”

Clover sighed, and decided to have pity. “There’s always tomorrow. Please come in; it’s bloody cold.”

Meg smiled a sad smile, and followed her sister inside. For her, things always seemed better when she was home. Nothing truly bad could reach you when you were at home.


	15. Up on the Hill

“Do you ever worry about the future?” Tiger Lily said as she looked over her shoulder at Rob.

He sighed, a puff of steam emanating from his mouth. “Not sure _worry’s_ the right word. Think about it sometimes.” He tugged his jacket closer around his shoulders.

Tiger Lily looked down at the path before them. Steep banks rose up on either side, topped with a tangle of ferns and brambles. In some places the dirt had crumbled away to reveal the stone wall underneath, long ago reclaimed by the land. To her, this was incomprehensible. To think about the future without worrying…

“What do you think about?” she said.

“Uh…” He grimaced. “It’s stupid.”

Tiger Lily looked askance at him. Now he was the one staring at the ground and the points of his ears had gone red. “I’m sure it’s not.”

He shrugged. “Reckon I’d like to be a farmer.”

“I thought you were a farmer now.”

“I’m a farmhand, it’s different. Being a farmer’d mean I’d have my own land, not just be working someone else’s. I mean, I wouldn’t own the land proper like, but I’d pay rent on my own fields,” he added, as though owning the land himself was too outlandish even in this idealised, hypothetical future. “Mayhap I’ll have my own farmhands. An’ I’ll keep dogs. The big ones what growl at trespassers but turn soft in front of the fire.”

“That’s nice.”

Rob made a mumbling sound through which Tiger Lily could just make out a thanks.

“Do you like dogs?” she said, hoping this would perk him up.

“Mm. You?”

She tensed her shoulders uncomfortably. “They’re nice, I suppose. A little servile for my taste.”

“Oh.” Rob looked away and sniffed disdainfully. “Cats are your favourites then?”

“I don’t really like them either,” Tiger Lily said. “They always look at you like they’re barely tolerating your presence.”

He snorted. “Sounds about right. We had a cat once, for the mice. Bloody vicious, it was. Took a dislike to Martin—wouldn’t leave him be.”

“What happened?”

“Gave it to Widow Stabler. All her little’uns’ve left home.”

“What else? On your farm, I mean.”

“Why’d you want to know?” Rob said, kicking a pebble. “It’s stupid.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Well, it’s not going to happen, is it?”

She opened her mouth to object to this, but closed it again. “It might happen,” she said carefully. “But it’s not stupid if it has meaning to you. It doesn’t matter how likely it is to happen.”

He shrugged and put his hands in his pockets. “I’ll have a wife, I s’pose. Little’uns.”

Tiger Lily frowned, studying the grass that pushed between her toes. “How can you be looking forward to marriage and children when you’re still so young? I thought lads our age dreaded all that.”

“I don’t want ‘em _yet_ ,” Rob said with a snort. “But I reckon I’ll be getting wed one day. An’ once you’re wed little’uns just sort of happen. Or afore, if you’re unlucky.”

Tiger Lily tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and wordlessly squeaked her agreement. Rob didn’t seem to notice her reaction as he continued.

“I’m good with my little brothers and sisters, so I don’t reckon being a dad’d be too much harder, given a year or… ten.” He sighed again, and his face relaxed into a grin. “What about you, then?”

“What about me?”

“You was the one what started talking about all this. Can’t tell me you don’t have an answer.”

“Um…” Tiger Lily started to massage her hand. “I asked about worries. I have plenty of those. But I can’t…” She cleared her throat. “I don’t want to say them out loud.”

“But if none of the worries happen. What then?”

Tiger Lily frowned. This was only a little easier to talk about. It was less likely to come true. “I suppose I’ll still be friends with Rowley. I’ll have other friends too. And a husband. A nice one.”

There was a pause.

“That it?” Rob said.

“Yes.”

He laughed gruffly. “How? I thought you was learned.”

Tiger Lily half-smiled. “I am… learned. I can’t help how I feel.”

“But you was going on at me for wanting to get wed.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean t-to _go on_ at you.” She hesitated. The words felt unfamiliar on her tongue. “I just wanted to understand.”

“So you want to get wed?”

Tiger Lily shrugged. “I suppose so. I don’t want to die an old maid. I’d be alone, and I’d be letting the family down. Not to mention that I would have to live with Bandobold for the rest of my life.” She scowled. “Or he could send me away to the Maids’ Quarters in the Great Smials if he gets sick of me.”

Rob frowned. “Why’re you worrying about that now? You’re not even of age yet.”

“It’s not as long as it seems. Most ladies get married in their thirties, and if you’re not married by the time you’re fifty then that’s it. And everyone I know has already started courting—not that I know many people.” She realised she was rambling but was somehow unable to stop herself. “Though I think they sometimes marry older ladies in Buckland. They have funny ideas out there. But I have a cousin called Erbard, he’s in his sixties or seventies, I think,” she tried to recall his entry on the family tree, “and his wife is still in her _thirties_.”

Rob wrinkled his nose. “Ugh.”

“It wasn’t considered a good match, but she’s plain, so it was good for her. Older hobbits don’t tend to be as fussy when it comes to looks. I imagine I’ll marry one, if I do marry. They have a son now, so I suppose it must all be all right. But what I meant to say was…” She drew in a deep breath to bring herself to a stop, and interlaced her fingers. “Because lads don’t marry until they’re a little bit older, I assumed _you_ wouldn’t have thought about it yet.”

The sound of Rob’s footfall behind her stopped. Tiger Lily came to a halt and turned to see what the matter was. His arms were folded across his chest, though his expression and stance weren’t confrontational.

“You’re not plain, lass.”

Tiger Lily looked at the ground and smiled uncertainly. “That’s kind of you to say.”

“An’ if you’re worried about having to live off your family you could always find yourself a job.”

She looked up at him sharply. This had never come up as a possibility before. “No, I couldn’t.”

“Why?”

Her mouth hung open as she searched for an answer, dumbfounded. “Well… because it’s… it’s not proper…” She shook her head as a much more solid obstacle presented itself. “And anyway, I can’t _do_ anything.” She brightened, and grinned. “I suppose I could just dig ditches for you on your farm.”

Rob laughed again. “Depends if you’re good enough. Good ditches’re worth more than gold.”

“I’ve been taught well.”

“Ditching can’t be taught. It needs to be lived.”

Tiger Lily snickered. By this point the banks has sloped downwards to nothing, leaving two fences as their only shield against the world. Ahead, she could see the Pool. The trailing leaves of the weeping willow that grew on the south bank were stirring in the wind.

“I need to get home,” Tiger Lily said. “Sango and I are going camping this evening—I need to prepare.” There was some reluctance to admitting this.

“Right. I’ll be off that way,” Rob said, pointing to the squat hill into which East Warren Lane was dug.

“Yes. Very good.” She went to take the shortcut over the fields, but Rob caught her hand before she could.

“See you again?” He grinned. “For the las time. Obviously.”

She looked at their hands and Sango’s warning clanged in her ears like a death knell. She swallowed. “Yes, if you like,” she said, withdrawing her hand quickly. “For the last time.”

“Right.” He was confused. “Same time next week?”

“Yes. That’s fine.” She was looking along the length of the fence. There wasn’t a gate or stile anywhere…

“You know aught about the pipe-weed?”

Tiger Lily looked over her shoulder at Rob, frowning. She hadn’t been expecting this. “I’m sorry?”

He shook his head. “Just my sister was going on about the lack of leaf, an’ was wondering if you knew anyone who owns plantations. It’s nothing, don’t trouble yourself.”

Tiger Lily shook her head vacantly, her mouth hanging slack. “Uh… I have some uncles in Longbottom. One of them grows pipe-weed.”

“Heard anything about the harvest…?” Rob said with a vagueness that showed he didn’t really know what he was looking for.

“I haven’t spoken to him since Lithe. But I could ask, I suppose.”

“Aye. Thank’ee.”

Tiger Lily nodded. She was getting too flustered to try and find an easy way into the field. Sighing, she hitched up her skirt and climbed over the fence. Jumping down on the other side she found Rob had been watching. Feeling embarrassed and not knowing what else to do, she curtseyed.

“Master Delver.”

With that she spun around and started to run back towards the Pool.

* * *

Tiger Lily followed the sound of voices to her father’s study. The door was ajar, and through the gap she could see her mother sat at the spare desk, shuffling through papers.

“But I’d feel guilty,” she said.

“He can’t manage the land properly. It’s a kindness,” Uncle Hortenbold said.

“Couldn’t I defer it until Aferbold returns? I’m only maintaining affairs, I don’t want to interfere.”

“And when he returns he’ll come to me for counsel, and I’ll advise him to end the tenancy.”

Tiger Lily hesitantly knocked on the door. “Mother?”

Her mother’s head snapped around towards her. “Yes? Are you all right?”

Tiger Lily stepped through and cast her gaze over the desks. The papers were all in neat piles. The varnished wood was shining—free of dust. She folded her hands behind her back and leaned against the doorframe. “You’ve tidied.”

“Of course we did,” Uncle Hortenbold said. He was sat at the desk that was usually occupied by her father. “We’ve not got any use for his rubbish.”

Her mother smiled kindly at her. “Just think how glad he’ll be to return to a nice tidy study.”

“I suppose so,” Tiger Lily said.

The neatness was disconcerting. It was like her father had never been there at all. She had rather liked the idea of keeping it as he liked it. Somehow that felt more optimistic, like there wouldn’t be any point in tidying because he would be home soon. She banished these thoughts from her head. She hadn’t come here to ask about her father.

“Mother, have you heard from Uncle Winto recently?”

Her mother raised an amused eyebrow and shuffled the papers in front of her. “I received a letter from him a fortnight ago.”

“How was his pipe-weed harvest?”

Mrs Took fixed her with a questioning look. “Now, why do you want to know about that?”

“It’s just that with the shortages, I thought his harvest might have been poor. Will he be all right? Has he made enough to tide him over to next year?” This was at least half-true. She wouldn’t want Uncle Winto to suffer if the harvests had been bad. So it wasn’t a real lie.

Mrs Took half-smiled. “Sweetheart, he sold the plantation. Months ago.”

Tiger Lily widened her eyes. “Why?”

Her mother sighed and shook her head, looking down at her paperwork again. “The offer was right, I suppose. I don’t ask about business matters. I was sad to see it go, but I suppose business takes priority over sentiment. He’s got the lads to think of.”

Tiger Lily fidgeted with her fingers. She didn’t suppose she knew the person who had bought the plantations to ask them how the harvest had been. But if she could give Rob a name, that was better than nothing. “Do you know who he sold to?”

“If memory serves,” Mrs Took said, dipping her quill into the inkpot, “it was to Mr Sackville-Baggins.”

Tiger Lily frowned. “Are you sure?”

“It’s quite a distinctive name, dear.”

“He bought Mr Boffin’s farm.”

“What’s that to the point?”

Tiger Lily wrung her hands. “If one person owns everything… isn’t that bad?”

“Two plantations and a farm hardly qualify as ‘everything’.”

“And Bag End.”

“He’s had his eye on that for years,” Uncle Hortenbold said, not looking up from his work. “Everyone knows it.” He saw Tiger Lily’s anxious face and sighed. “If a gentlehobbit has money to spend, and chooses to spend that money on land, then that’s his right. Don’t get yourself into a state over pipe-weed of all things.”

Tiger Lily closed her eyes. She felt like she was on the edge of something important. “But— but if he’s bought all the plantations and now the pipe-weed’s gone, does that mean that now he’s bought the farm all the wheat will—”

“Why don’t you go and get ready for your outing with Sango?” Mrs Took said.

Uncle Hortenbold looked at her sharply. “Surely they’re not going out at this time. It’s getting dark.”

“They’re staying out in a field somewhere. I did my best to talk them out of it,” Mrs Took said with a roll of the eyes.

“I see.” Uncle Hortenbold looked at Tiger Lily, his quill frozen on the paper. He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth as he placed it in the inkpot. “Do as your mother says, Tiger Lily.”

Tiger Lily hesitated before obeying. He was going to complain about her going. Reluctantly she stepped out of the study, closing the door behind her. Curiosity kept her hovering by the door.

“You can’t let her sleep out in the wild, _alone_ , with a lad. Think of her reputation,” he said.

“They’re only children,” her mother said dismissively.

“Just because you believe it, that doesn’t make it true. Marriages have happened at younger, if you take my meaning.”

“Not my Tiger Lily. I’ve protected her from such vulgarities.”

“Ignorance is not protection.”

The door opened and Uncle Hortenbold stepped out. He scowled down at Tiger Lily as he shut the door behind him. “Eavesdropping, were we?”

She turned her face towards the ground. “No, sir.”

“A shame. Perhaps you would have learned something if you were.” He took her jaw in his hand and forced her to tilt her head up to look him in the eye. “I will not have a hussy in this family, do you understand me?”

She swallowed and did her best to hold her gaze. “Yes, Uncle.”

“Good.” He released her and made to walk away.

“I really would like to go camping, Uncle,” she said before he had a chance to escape. “I’ve felt so miserable since Father left, and Mother said I wasn’t to go on my own, what with the disappearances and Black Riders… And we shan’t be able to see as much of each other once the Boffins go away.”

Uncle Hortenbold covered his mouth with a hand as she spoke, a thoughtful expression on his face. Now he put his hands in his pockets, and seemed to come to a decision. “Very well. I will accompany you and Master Sango.”

This took Tiger Lily by surprise. “You?”

He folded his arms. “And what’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing,” she said quickly. “But as you were unable to go to Buckland, I would have assume—”

“One night of camping is not the same as travelling fifty miles to slog through the Old Forest, though I don’t imagine either would do my joints any good. And shocking as this may seem, Tiger Lily, I am a Took. I do have some sense of adventure.”

Tiger Lily grinned. “Are you a Took, Uncle? I had no idea.”

He made a brief, amused mumble. “Go on. Off with you.”

Tiger Lily walked to her room with a light, springing step, the pipe-weed plantations forgotten for the time being.

* * *

Sango whistled to himself as he pushed another rolled-up blanket into his pack. He was hoping the cold wouldn’t be too bad if they had enough of these, as well as a nice fire. He needed matches… He walked over to the mantelpiece to search for some. Bottles of rose-water, candles, handkerchiefs, pens, empty inkbottles, plenty of _burnt-out_ matches… Glancing at the dresser he caught sight of a book, left face-down to keep his page number. He’d almost forgotten.

He padded over to the dresser and picked the book up while he remembered. He wedged it into the overflowing sack.

“Sango.”

He stopped whistling and glanced over his shoulder at the doorway, where his father stood. “Hello,” he said brightly.

Mr Boffin sighed. “Your mother tells me you’re going camping tonight. With Tiger Lily.”

“That’s right. Did I not tell you?”

“No.” He covered his eyes with his hand. “You know it’s not appropriate anymore.”

Sango went back to trying to get the book in the pack. “Oh, well. A promise is a promise.”

“ _Sango_.”

_“What?”_ He turned around angrily, slinging the pack onto one shoulder.

“Don’t speak to me in that tone.”

Sango huffed. “Sorry, Father. I just think it’s a little regressive that we need to be shepherded around like _faunts_ again. If Tiger Lily were a lad—”

“If she were we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Could go through, please?”

Mr Boffin reluctantly stepped out of the doorway, letting Sango brush past.

“Rico went off alone with Citrine Lightfoot last year, and you didn’t give him this much grief,” Sango said as his father followed him down the corridor.

“Frankly, I find Rico’s behaviour more understandable. He knew what he did was improper, the problem was that he didn’t care. _You_ don’t seem to see the problem.”

“Do we have any biscuits left?”

“I’m not going to let you divert—”

“I think I saw some in the pantry,” Sango said, trotting off towards the kitchen.

Mr Boffin stopped where he stood and threw his hands up in despair. “I give up.”

* * *

“We said we’d meet at the east gate of the farm, and carry on from there to the Common.”

“Very good.”

Tiger Lily and her uncle walked side by side down the dirt path to Boffin’s Farm. Each had a pack on their back, containing blankets and not a great deal else. Tiger Lily had also put on two of her heavy wool petticoats.

“I would have thought you’d outgrown this nonsense,” Uncle Hortenbold said after a time. “Since you gave up your bow.”

Tiger Lily groaned internally. She wondered how long he’d been waiting to close the trap. “Please don’t say you’re still angry with me.”

“Of course I’m bloody angry,” he snapped. “We put _decades_ into teaching you, and for what?”

“Opal gave it up too,” she said weakly.

“And I said the same to her when she did.”

“You’re the one who cares about respectability,” she muttered. “Not wanting a hussy in the family.”

“That is not at all the same thing. You’re a Took. Hunting with a longbow is your inheritance and now you’ve tossed it away like a broken toy.”

“But I would have needed to give it up anyway when I married. Or would you have me die a spinster?” Tiger Lily said bitterly.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Uncle Hortenbold said wearily. “Where’s this venom come from? What have _I_ done?”

“You made me an oddity.” Tiger Lily said. “You taught me to use a bow. You _encouraged_ me.”

Uncle Hortenbold regarded her, and drew in a hissing breath through his teeth. “I _see_. If you were to ask my opinion—”

“I haven’t.”

“ _If you were to ask my opinion,”_ he said again, “I think you’re not as much of an oddity as you believe yourself to be.”

Her face grew hot with indignation and she stopped dead. “But you’ve never ruddy lived in Tookland,” she said. “You must have known that it wouldn’t bring me anything good. You should have known better.”

“Well, perhaps if any of my sons had lived more than a week we wouldn’t have bothered,” Hortenbold snapped. “But the fact is they didn’t, and you and Opal were the only grandchildren my father knew. What else were we to do?”

Tiger Lily’s mouth hung open. She had been completely unprepared for this.

He turned away and set off again at a brisk pace. She trailed behind, not daring to say anything more. They walked the rest of the way in silence, and it wasn’t until they had been waiting by the gate for some time that Uncle Hortenbold gave an exhausted sigh.

He fiddled with one of his cufflinks. “Now, I don’t believe in giving praise too freely, so I’m only going to say this once. You were a good archer. You could have become better in time but now you never shall, and I think that’s a shame. That’s why I’m angry.”

As the word sunk in she could feel the tears threatening to well up, and hated herself for it.

Uncle Hortenbold scowled at her as she sniffed. “What’s wrong with you now?”

“Nothing.” She wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

“Do you need a handkerchief?” he said, bringing his hand to one of his pockets.

“No. Thank you.” She took a deep breath to try and compose herself.

“Tills?”

Sango was strolling towards them, a pack on his back and a distinctly puzzled look on his face. “Mr Took,” he said as he reached them.

“Master Boffin.”

Sango stood with his eyes narrowed in confusion and his lips parted and slack, obviously trying to work out how to ask ‘Why are you here?’ politely.

“I thought to join you,” Uncle Hortenbold said amiably. “Better than sitting at home with no company or smoke.”

“Oh. Yes. Certainly. The more the merrier.” Sango smiled and came through the gate. “Shall we be off?”

Tiger Lily trailed after Uncle Hortenbold and Sango as they set off towards the Common.

“Have your family found a new property yet?” Uncle Hortenbold said.

“Oh, yes. Well, sort of. It’s a little place called The Rookery, up in Overhill, but it’s only temporary,” Sango said. “It’s not a farm you see—Father couldn’t get one—so we’re only living there until we can find something more appropriate.”

“Will your family be able to manage?” Uncle Hortenbold said.

“Father said we should be all right for the time being. Lotho gave us a fair price for the farm, and we do have a couple of tenants. We’re still having a farewell party next Tuesday, so I don’t think he’s too worried. You’re invited, by the way, Mr Took. Will Opal and your wife be back from Michel Delving by then?”

“They will.”

“And you?” Sango said, looking over at Tiger Lily. “You will be coming, won’t you?”

Tiger Lily sighed. “I suppose so.”

“I glad,” he said, smiling gently. “It won’t be scary, I promise. Some of my other friends will be coming. I can introduce you. They’re all very nice, very friendly…”

“All right, all right.”

When they reached the Common they started to make their way up a steady hill, Uncle Hortenbold and Sango having somehow agreed on the best direction to go without having said anything.

“It seems everyone is leaving, by one means or another,” Uncle Hortenbold said, a little breathlessly, “with poor old Dorso in the ground, Aferbold away, and now your family moving, Master Sango. Soon I’ll be the only gentlehobbit left in Bywater.”

“I didn’t realise you were so fond of me, Mr Took.” Sango came to a stop at the peak of the hill. “Here, do you think?”

“It seems as good a place as any.”

Sango knelt down, and took his pack off his back. “Let’s get a fire started, shall we?”

Tiger Lily settled down on the grass while Sango searched through his pack. He started to frantically pull blankets out onto the grass.

“What’s wrong?” she said.

Sango sat back, chewing his lip. “Did you bring any matches? Or a tinderbox?”

“No.”

“Me neither.”

Uncle Hortenbold heaved a heavy sigh. “And I was worried you’d grown up.” He took his own pack off and after some rummaging brought out an old hunting knife, and handed it to Tiger Lily. “I’ll need dry bark, some large stones, and kindling, if you please.”

There was an oak tree in the adjacent meadow, and Sango and Tiger Lily went together.

“Why did he have a knife with him?” Sango said as they reached the foot of the tree.

Tiger Lily shrugged. “I suppose he thought it might be useful.”

“Well, he was right, I suppose. This feels dry.” He picked up a slim fallen branch and tried to jerk the knife out of her hand.

Tiger Lily instinctively tightened her grip, and drew her hand away from him. He glanced at her, surprised.

“I need it to get the bark off,” he said. He looked like a dog who didn’t understand what their master had just said.

“I can do it,” Tiger Lily said, and held her free hand out for the branch. She was feeling irrationally put-out. Uncle Hortenbold had given the knife to _her_.

Sango hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“I can skin a rabbit, I can certainly strip a branch.”

Sango winced, but handed her the branch without further comment.

They returned to the camp with the bark and kindling, Tiger Lily carrying the stones in her skirt. Sango put the stones into a ring and started to build up the sticks. While he did this Tiger Lily watched with interest as Uncle Hortenbold selected one of the thicker sticks, and made a groove along it with the knife. He started to run a twig up and down the groove over a bed of bark.

“Can I try?” Tiger Lily said.

The corner of Uncle Hortenbold’s mouth twitched into a brief smile. “If you like. Hold it like this. Keep your fingers out of the way.” He moved her hands into the correct position.

“Is that right?” Tiger Lily said as she tried to mimic him.

“A little more firmly. Like you’re striking a match.”

She frowned as she continued. Her fingers were starting to burn from the friction.

Her heart pounded as a thin, white stream of smoke started to pour up from the bark. “What do I do now?” she said in a panicked voice.

“It’s all right.” He picked the bark up in his cupped hands and gently blew into it. “You mustn’t let it go out…” He murmured. He blew into it again and a little yellow flame rose up. He carefully deposited it at the bottom of the wood pile. “There we are. Well done,” he said, turning his eyes to Tiger Lily.

She smiled as the kindling started to take light. “Thank you.”

“Where did you learn how to do that?” Sango said.

“My father taught me,” Uncle Hortenbold said. “And he was taught by one of the Old Took’s sons, I think. Isumbras. Or was it Isengar? I don’t remember.”

“Father would know,” Tiger Lily said, hugging her knees.

“Yes, I imagine he would,” Hortenbold said with a sigh. “He was always useful for that sort of thing.”

“Do you remember the Old Took at all?” Sango said, sitting cross-legged and watching Uncle Hortenbold like a child being told a story.

Hortenbold scowled and rested a hand on his leg. “ _Remember_ him? How old do you believe I am, Master Sango?”

Tiger Lily smiled as Sango’s expression glazed over. “I’m not sure ‘old’ is the right word, Mr Took. Experienced. Venerable.” His expression brightened as though he had seen the escape route. “Vintage! Like a fine wine—”

“I suggest you stop talking now.”

“Yes, sir.”

* * *

_“You would attach yourself to one such as him?” Mr Darkwater said, taking confident steps towards our heroine._

_“Mr Milton has the kindest nature of any Hobbit I’ve ever met, and I declare that I do love him,” Miss Brite said, turning her head to conceal a blush, surprised at the passion with which she spoke._

_“And I declare that I cannot take any other of your sex to wife; strange, lightsome thing that you are.” he said and took her delicate little hand in his. “My Rosalind.”_

_A gasp escaped her quivering lips, but she found she could not escape his mighty hold. Her bosom rose and fell with every breath she took. “Mr Darkwater!”_

“…”

“Why have you stopped?”

Tiger Lily looked up at Sango. “That’s the end of the chapter. Can we stop for a bit? My throat hurts.”

She sat back and let Sango’s copy of _Miss Brite and the Increasingly Improbable Series of Events_ lie open on her lap as she took a draw of water from the wineskin. It was about a spirited-yet-proper young lady of moderate wealth, who had fallen in love with both a sensitive painter and a broodingly passionate gentlehobbit. Things were only complicated further by her mother’s cruel landlord Mr Goldfoot, who had (unfortunately) also fallen in love with her.

“Alternatively, you could start wearing your spectacles so you could read it yourself,” she said.

“But you’re so good at reading,” he said cajolingly.

“Wear your spectacles.”

He huffed and rolled onto his stomach. “What’s the title of the next chapter?”

Tiger Lily flicked to the next page. “In Which Miss Brite Receives a Most Vexing Note and Mr Goldfoot Makes His Intentions Clear.” She saw Sango’s wide eyes and sighed. “Don’t worry yourself, I’m sure she won’t marry Mr Goldfoot.”

“I hope she marries Mr Darkwater,” Sango said, his voice muffled by his pillow.

“She’ll marry Milton,” Tiger Lily said wearily. “That’s how these stories always go.”

“Don’t say that, I hate Milton.”

She flicked through the pages idly. “How can you hate Milton when you _are_ Milton?”

Sango sat up, scowling indignantly. “I am not Milton.”

She glanced up at him. “You rather are, I’m afraid. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you.”

“I’m not Milton,” he said again.

A smile tugged at the corner of Tiger Lily’s lips. “A good-hearted, wide-eyed young artist who becomes utterly devoted his lady upon seeing her for the first time. Probably a tenor.”

“I’m not an artist.”

“How’s the poetry?”

Sango considered this in silence as prickly realisation dawned. “But I don’t want to be Milton,” he groaned and buried his face in his pillow.

Tiger Lily started laughing silently, covering her mouth with the book and peering over the top at Sango. He lifted his head and scowled at her. “Oh, be quiet,” he said, throwing his pillow at her.

She could only laugh harder at this, dropping the book beside her on the ground. Sango sighed and stood over her, arms folded. “I retract my previous statement. You’re a terrible reader.”

“It’s not my fault I don’t like the same stories as you,” Tiger Lily said, wiping her tears away.

He snatched his book and pillow back up. “I’ll be glad when I have a wife to read with me.”

“What if she doesn’t like them either?”

“My wife will have much better taste than you,” he said and gave her a light tap on the head with the book.

“Ow!”

“That didn’t hurt, chicken-heart.” He returned to his pile of blankets and pulled them up over his legs. “Who would you choose, then? Mr Darkwater or Mr Milton?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

“Oh, come. Say you have two suitors, both will die if you don’t give them your hand—”

Tiger Lily laughed. “I’ve never had such power, and I don’t think I ever shall.”

“Who do you choose: the boring painter, or the dashing, roguish gentlehobbit?”

She picked at a hole in one of her blankets. “Must I choose either of them?”

“You can’t have both.”

“That’s not what I…” She trailed off when she saw Sango’s expectant expression. “I suppose there’s something romantic about running away with a painter,” she conceded.

“No!”

“And Mr Darkwater’s so nasty to everyone. Including Miss Brite.”

“He’s not nasty. He just acts like that on the outside because his brother married his childhood sweetheart and then she died and—”

“I believe I would find that of little comfort if I were married to him.” She rested her jaw on her fist. “I’m sorry, Rowley, but Mr Milton has it.”

He sniffed. “Well, I think you’re an anomaly.”

“I don’t think you’re in a position to decide what young ladies want in a husband.” She grinned. “Besides which, if all ladies prefer Darkwater over Milton, you’ll never find a wife.”

“Blast.” Sango rubbed his jaw. “I shall have to transform myself into a rogue.”

She smiled affectionately at him. “I don’t think you’re quite capable of that, dear heart.”

“I can have a go, at least.”

“But if what makes Mr Darkwarter’s roguery—”

“Is that a word?”

“I think it is. It is now, anyway. If what makes his roguery permissible is the terribly tragic events in his past with his brother and so forth, then what will make yours permissible?”

“Huh…” He tilted his head back to look at the sky. The moonlight was on his hair. “That’s true. Perhaps I won’t, then. I don’t think it’s necessary anyway, since I’ll probably marry Lavender.”

Tiger Lily raised her eyebrows. “Gosh. Does she know that?”

Sango grinned at her. “I haven’t proposed yet, I’m not that silly. But in a few years… I can see myself marrying her. She has eyes like opals.”

Tiger Lily frowned. “Opal’s?”

“Yes. It’s that kind of bluey-green. I think they must be the same colour as the sea.”

Opal’s eyes were brown, but Tiger Lily decided not to pursue this point. “Your mother doesn’t like her.”

He shrugged. “What’s that to me?”

“She asked me to spy on you and Lavender for her,” she said.

Sango’s head snapped around to face her. “Oh.” His eyes darted away for a moment.

“Sorry. But I thought you’d like to know.”

He nodded vaguely. “Will you?”

Tiger Lily cocooned herself in her blankets. “I don’t think so.”

“Thank you.” He smiled warmly at her. “I’m fond of her, Tilly.”

“I know. But if you do marry her you’ll be stuck with me to read to you.”

“Ah well. I’ll cope.” He lay back. “I invited her to the farewell party. I’m not sure what Mother will think of that. Or Father, for that matter.” He groaned and covered his face with his hands. “He’s started saying I need to grow up. But we only have a few years left before we come of age. I think I’d like to carry on being a child while I still can.”

Tiger Lily started to pick at the grass. “That’s odd. I’m beginning to think I’m expected to remain a child until I’m married. But that might be another twenty years. I don’t want to wait that long.”

Sango smiled puckishly. “Maybe we could swap places. You could learn to do the accounts on the farm, and I could… buy ribbons, or whatever it is lasses do.”

“People would notice.”

“But if I grew my hair out…”

“I still think they’d suspect.”

“It was worth a thought. Here. Payment for your efforts.” He opened a brown paper package and handed a biscuit to her.

“Thank you.” Tiger Lily looked up at the sky as she nibbled. The stars were flickering above. She wondered vaguely if they would ever go out. “You know… you will be head of the Rollo line one day,” she said. “It might be a good idea to prepare yourself for that…”

“Well, there’s nothing to that,” Sango said, closing his eyes and stretching out on the grass. “Just making sure I send kinship gifts to the right people at the right time.”

She sighed. “But, you know… it’s not completely out of the question that you could become head of the Boffins.”

“Yes, it is,” he said flatly.

“It’s unlikely,” she said. “Very unlikely. But it’s not impossible.”

“Cousin Folco will have a son.”

“I wonder if Thain Paladin thought the same of Ferumbras when he was our age.” She looked over at Uncle Hortenbold, who was snoring quietly. “Not everyone has a son.”

“If Folco doesn’t have one then Tosto will,” Sango said, sitting up and looking at her angrily. “Why do you always have to create problems that aren’t there?”

“I don’t mean to,” she said, dismayed, “but I’d hate to think of the headship falling into your lap and you being completely unprepared for it.”

“But it’s not going to fall into my lap, so what’s the point? Should I be counselling you on what to do if your father becomes Thain?”

“Now, _that’s_ impossible.”

“Unlikely. Not impossible.”

She leaned forward, scowling. “Half the Tooks would have to die for Father to become Thain. I think whatever pestilence brought that about would be of most concern in that scenario.”

“It could happen.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“Why?”

“Because even if Father was first in line I _couldn’t_ become the Thain.” She lay back with her arms folded resolutely. They lay in silence for a time. The stars flickered above.

“What if I never marry?” Tiger Lily said.

“What?”

She rolled onto her side to face him. His expression was open, and innocent. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot today. It might be another twenty years until I marry, but it could be never."

“You’ll marry all right. Everyone does.”

“Not everyone. The Thain’s eldest sister never married, nor did Cousin Ivy and Cousin Trefoil, and everyone says Cousin Hedera needs to get married soon or she’ll have missed her chance.”

“All right, all right, I take your point.” He rolled onto his side as well. The fire was still just about burning and lent his face a warm, comforting hue. Tiger Lily shifted closed to him.

“I’m frightened that if I never marry I’ll be a child my whole life,” she said quietly. “And then this whole world of life and possibility and understanding will be closed to me forever. What do I do with the last fifty years of my life if I don’t marry in the first fifty?”

Slowly he reached across to her, took one of her hands in his, and squeezed it. “You’ll be all right,” he said with a gentle resolve.

Tiger Lily ran her thumb over his fingers. “I did the right thing, didn’t I?” she said. “When I gave up shooting, did I do the right thing?”

He was startled by this. “ _I_ don’t know.”

“But I thought you were pleased,” she said, panicking slightly.

“I was. But asking if it’s _right_ implies there’s a moral aspect to it, which there isn’t. It’s just about whether or not it’s the best thing for you.”

“Is it?”

Sango rolled onto his back and groaned. “I wish you’d ask easier questions. It’s not my decision.”

“But I’m asking you for advice. Do you think it was the best thing for me?”

He turned his face towards her. His expression was unreadable. “Yes.”

Tiger Lily turned away from him. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that answer. “Good,” she said and put on a smile. “I can start on the next chapter now, if you like.”

Sango handed the book to her, and she flicked through to find the right page. Everything would be all right. For now, at least. She would probably marry.

Probably.

She still needed to decide what to do about Master Delver, but that could wait until another day.

And the pipe-weed would come back. The people who worked that sort of thing out knew what they were doing. They wouldn’t let anything happen to the wheat, either. They would know how to stop it.

She found the page and cleared her throat before beginning.


	16. Clover and the Grubbs

“You sure you’ve got everything?”

“Reckon so. I can just come back for anything I’ve forgot.”

Meg nodded, staring vacantly as Clover heaved the old carpet bag up from the bed.

“It’s going to be properly strange without you here.”

Clover smiled wryly. “You won’t notice the difference.”

“Yes, we will.”

“You’ll like having your own bed,” Maizey said. She was lounging on the middle bed, which was hers and only hers.

“Which of us are you talking to?” Meg said.

“Both.” She reclined on her back and looked at the ceiling. “Reckon I’d like having my own room. No dolls. No Poppy.”

“Don’t,” Meg said.

“But she’s so bloody snobbish.”

“She’s young. She don’t know no better. You need to be the grown-up.”

“I’ll start being a grown-up when she does.”

Clover had started a light-footed exit while they’d been talking, but Meg noticed before she had reached the door. “Here, let me carry that for you,” she said, reaching out and trying to take the handle of the carpet bag.

“Leave it,” Clover said, tightening her grip and looking at Meg reproachfully.

Meg let go and looked down at her with hurt surprise. “Sorry.”

“Don’t hurry back,” Maizey called as they left the room.

Outside the lasses’ room the smial was humming with the usual pre-work bustle, with most of it concentrated in the kitchen. Clover put her head around the door, where her mother and a handful of siblings were making as much nose as they could. “I’m headed off now.”

“Oh!” Mrs Delver put the bowl she’d been washing on the draining board and walked towards her, holding her dripping hands away from her body. “Come on, let me give you a hug.”

“You don’t have to,” Clover said, grimacing.

“Yes, I do.”

Clover arched her back as her mother hugged her, and kept her arms stiff at her sides. When she was released Mrs Delver smiled sadly at her. “I’ll be counting the wages you bring us, and if I find you’ve been giving us everything I’ll be disappointed. You need to keep something for yourself.”

Clover half-smiled and nodded. “All right.” She looked back to the gathered brothers and sisters, none of whom had stopped their conversations. “Goodbye, you lot.”

A chorus of indifferent goodbyes rose up.

She scowled. “Charming.”

Mrs Delver opened the parlour door. “She’s off, Jon.”

“Right.” Mr Delver stepped into the doorway and looked down at Clover with folded arms and an expression that said he still hadn’t forgiven her. “You’re away then, daughter?”

“Aye.” 

“When’ll you be coming back to us?”

“Friday, probably. I’ll have my wages by then.”

“So long?” Meg said.

“Six days ain’t that long,” Clover said, shifting her bag from one hand to the other.

“Well, have a nice time serving your betters,” Mr Delver said coldly.

Clover glared at him. He wouldn’t have spoken like that to any of her brothers or sisters, with the possible exception of Jack.

“Grumpy old bugger,” she muttered under her breath.

Mr and Mrs Delver and Meg followed her to the door.

“We’ll keep your chair at the table, and we won’t get rid of none of the beds, so you can come back whenever you like,” Mrs Delver said.

“I know,” Clover said wearily. She opened the door and felt the cool, lively air on her face. She was so nearly out of the cage. “Bye, Mum. Dad. Meg.”

“Oh. Goodbye, then. Remember to brush your feet,” Mrs Delver called at Clover reached the gate.

“I will,” Clover said. She smiled joylessly and closed the gate behind her, not looking back again.

“It’s sort of nice to think of, ain’t it?” Mrs Delver said, looking at her husband as Clover disappeared down the lane. “Our little lass hobnobbing with the gentlefolk.”

Mr Delver growled and turned back into the smial.

Meg finally looked away from the lane to look at her mother. “What’re we going to do?” she said.

“We get on,” Mrs Delver said, going back inside. “Naught else we can do.”

* * *

“There are five of us living here in all: myself, my mother-in-law and my three children. You will address me as ‘madam’ or ‘Mrs Grubb’. If you ever need to differentiate me from the other Mrs Grubb you will refer to me as Mistress Campanula, and to her as Mistress Victoria. You will address my children in whatever way they see fit.”

“Yes, madam.”

“You’re aware of my sons’ business?”

“Registrars, madam.”

“Correct. So we have clients coming and going during the day to register births and deaths, and to arrange weddings. Bearing in mind that it won’t always be obvious which they’ve come to do, you will greet them courteously without being overly friendly. Then you will show them to Dalgo or Monno’s studies. If they already have a client with them, then their door will be closed. If they are both occupied you will offer the client our apologies followed by a cup of tea, and you will leave them to wait outside one of the studies and resume your regular duties.”

“Which study?”

“What?” Young Mrs Grubb stopped and turned to face Clover.

“Which study, madam? Mr Dalgo’s or Mr Monno’s?”

“I don’t quite understand the question.”

“If both studies are closed,” Clover said wearily as she shifted her bag to her other hand, “which study would you have me lead the client to?”

Mrs Grubb turned away. “I’ll leave that to your discretion. Now, we have the dining room, parlour, kitchen, Dalgo’s study, the washroom…”

Clover trailed helplessly after Young Mrs Grubb as she pointed out each room as the passed it. Full bookshelves lined the hallway.

“…Monno’s study, Monno’s bedchamber, Abelia’s bedchamber. At the very end there is the room belonging to myself and Victoria, and Dalgo’s chamber is on the other side. And this—” Young Mrs Grubb opened a small door between Abelia’s and Dalgo’s rooms. “—is where you will be living.”

It was a small room, and windowless. A bedside table, chest of drawers, washstand and narrow bed were the only furniture to be seen. The only decorations were a vase and a wall mirror with a plain wooden frame. A candleholder sat next to a neat little row of candles on top of the drawers. Her new uniform was laid out neatly on the bed. Matching ribbons were rolled up on the bedside table. Clover didn’t see the chips in the jug and vase, or the scratches on the surface of the furniture. None of it mattered. It was hers. Only hers.

“Thank you, Mrs Grubb,” she said sincerely.

“I’ll leave you to unpack and change,” Young Mrs Grubb said briskly. “Then you can come and find me to begin your training. I expect you to present yourself neatly with your hair pinned up at all times. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Good.”

She closed the door. Clover lit a candle, and realised her hands were trembling. It had been a long time since she’d felt like this—like she was in a situation beyond her control. She changed swiftly and as she finished pinning her hair up she regarded herself in the mirror.

The dress was made of a smooth emerald green material. Her apron was startlingly white, a contrast to her mother’s aprons, all of which had faded to grey. She straightened her posture. Just as long as she looked confident…

She found Young Mrs Grubb in the kitchen, knelt above a steaming bowl of washing with an apron tied over her light mulberry gown. There was a smell of scones baking, and the kettle was on the stove. The kitchen was cosily neat. While all the surfaces were clean and uncluttered, there were also little things that showed this room was well-used and well-loved. An empty washing line stretched across the ceiling, and the chairs around the table were all askew. Someone had left a jar filled with paintbrushes on the central table. The doorpost was covered in little notches with notes like _M—1’11”, age 10_ scratched in next to them.

“Ah. Good,” Mrs Grubb said and walked around Clover to examine her dress. “Does it need any adjustments?”

“No, madam. Thank you.”

“Do you have any other shifts?”

“Madam?”

“It’s discoloured.”

Clover looked down at the neckline of her shift, which was visible beneath the bodice of the uniform. It, like her mother’s aprons, had turned grey with all the washings over the years.

“No, madam.”

“A shame,” Young Mrs Grubb said. “But I don’t suppose there’s anything to be done.”

“What would you have me do, Mrs Grubb?” Clover said, hoping to change the subject.

“I want you to watch me, so I can show you how to wash the clothes.”

“I’ve washed clothes before, madam,” Clover said hesitantly.

“I am aware, but am showing you how we wash clothes _here_. I have a system, and I expect you to stick to it.”

It was gruelling, and most of it was what Clover already knew, but Mrs Grubb showed her how to sort the clothes, how to soak anything that was particularly dirty, how much lye to add to the water, what order to wash them in and how to properly run clothes through the mangle. The fire for the water heated the room horribly and Clover’s skin was soon sticky with sweat.

“And I don’t want to find anything spread out over the hedges to dry,” Mrs Grubb said as she pegged another shift onto the line. “I don’t care how good the weather is, I’ll not have—”

She was interrupted when the kettle started whistling. She went to lift it off the stove. “Here. You can bring Dalgo and Monno their tea while I take some through to Mother and Abelia. If their doors a closed you may knock and inquire if they or the client would like a drink.”

“Yes, madam.”

It was with trepidation that Clover carried the fully loaded tea tray. Nothing on the farm required such delicacy. The cups clinked together with every step, setting her nerves on edge. She could feel the shifting weight of the tea in the pot as it sloshed back and forth. She paused in the hallway. Only Monno’s door was open. Even if she was allowed to knock, she would prefer to serve in front of only one person, and preferably without interrupting anyone registering a death in the family. Hopefully Dalgo’s door would be open by the time she had given Monno his tea.

The study was nearly identical to the one she had been interviewed in, with full bookshelves reaching from floor to ceiling. Inside there was a gentlehobbit, stood facing away from the door. Even with his face turned away this was obviously a different lad from the Mr Grubb she had already met. This one was shorter and stockier. Whatever he was, he was completely absorbed in the large, leather-bound book he was leafing through. He didn’t seem to have heard her approach. Clover rapped on the door with a knuckle.

The lad jumped and spun around to face her. “Oh. Hello. Sorry, I didn’t know you were there.”

“Sorry for startling you, sir,” Clover said. “Would you like some tea?”

“Uh… Yes, thank you,” he said breathlessly. “Here, let me clear some of this.” He set the book down, leaving it open on his page, and shifted the piles of paper on the desk to the side.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, setting the tray down on the newly created space. She cast a glance at the open book. It was much bigger than the books shelved in the main hallway room, and the layout of the pages resembled Mr Boffin’s ledger, which he kept open on his desk when handing out the wages. Everything was written in neat little rows and columns, with lines to separate them. She pulled her eyes away. “Do you take milk, Mr Grubb?”

He smiled as he picked up his book again. “‘Mr Monno’, please. It’ll get far too confusing with two Mr Grubbs and two Mrs Grubbs.”

“As you say, Mr Monno. Would you like milk?”

“Yes. Please. And one sugar.” Clover squirrelled this information away for future reference as he sat down in his chair.

“You’re the new maid, then,” he said.

“I am, sir. Clover,” she said as she added the milk.

He nodded to her. “Nice to meet you. I’m, uh… I’m sorry.”

She raised an eyebrow as she handed him his tea. “For what?”

He sighed. “Just a general apology. Thank you for the tea.”

“Very good, sir.” She dropped a curtsey and picked the tray back up. Stepping into the corridor she found that the study of Dalgo Grubb was still closed. Clover took a moment to breathe before balancing the plate on one hand and knocking on the door.

“Enter.”

Clover carefully turned the doorknob and pushed the door open with her shoulder. Dalgo was sat behind his desk. Open before him was a book identical to the one Monno had been looking through. Another Hobbit was sat across from him. Clover recognised him as Mr Hayes, one of the residents of East Warren Lane. His wife had just had their fourth baby.

“The Mistress wondered if you would like some tea, sir.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

She carefully set the tray down on the edge of the desk. She looked to Mr Hayes. “And you, sir?”

“He won’t be requiring any,” Dalgo said, not looking up from what he was writing in the book. “We’re finished here. I’d be obliged if you would show him to the door.”

“Yes, sir. Would you like to come this way, sir?” She gestured to the open door.

Mr Hayes nodded and rose from his seat. “Thank you for your time, Mr Grubb.”

“Mm.” Dalgo still didn’t look up from his writing.

Mr Hayes and Clover exchanged a glance as they left the study. When they were far away enough from the door he smiled and said in a whispered voice, “I prefer the other one. He always says ‘congratulations’.”

When Clover returned to the study, having seen Mr Hayes out, it was to find that Dalgo had poured his own tea, and was now leaning back in his seat, sipping. The tea was dark and translucent, and none of the spoons had been used. No milk or sugar.

“Sorry you had to get your own tea, sir,” she said, lifting the tray up.

“I’m quite capable, thank you,” he said in a clipped, detached voice.

Clover did her best to match his tone in her expression. “I’m sure.” She curtseyed and turned to go.

“What was the answer to your riddle?”

She stopped and looked back at Dalgo. He had placed his cup back in its saucer and was doing his best to look as disinterested as possible.

“My riddle, sir?”

“On the day you were interviewed you said there was a particular reason you spoke out of turn. It’s not a matter of great interest, but you did say you would give the reason in exchange for the position, and I consider my part of the debt fulfilled.”

Clover inhaled deeply. She had forgotten about this. Her true answer wouldn’t do. Not if she wanted to keep this position. But his attempt to look indifferent was so… affected. If he truly didn’t care about the answer he wouldn’t have asked. This was irritating him, like a burning itch inside his skull. What he didn’t seem to have realised at this point was that in asking this question he was giving her power. Not a great deal, but then she’d always done well enough with what little she could find.

“I don’t recall, sir.”

Dalgo looked up at her sharply. “You must. You said, quite specifically, that you chose to speak out of turn—that it was the same reason for my idiosyn… my turn of phrase.”

“I’m sure a poor lass such as me couldn’t understand a great mind like yours.” She dropped a curtsey. “I must get back to work, sir.”

Clover returned to the kitchen, stepping silently as a cat.

“Did all go well?” Young Mrs Grubb said, pegging the last of the clothes to the line.

Clover set the tray down on the table. Her hands were trembling slightly. “Yes, madam.” She had no reason to be shaken. Nothing that could have gone wrong had. Not that it would have. She wouldn’t have let that happen. Absolutely not.

“Good.” She wiped her spectacles on her sleeve. “I’m sure I shall hear about it if not.”

There was something deeply unsettling about the way Young Mrs Grubb let you know your place without the need for a raised voice or harsh words. There was no way Clover would be able to try anything with her. “Yes, Mrs Grubb.”

Mrs Grubb untied her apron. “I need to go to the butcher’s. This would be a good time for you to become acquainted with my mother-in-law, don’t you think? I’ve left Abelia with her for long enough.”

“Um…” Clover swallowed. “I’m not sure I can.”

Mrs Grubb hung the apron on a hook on the back of the door. “Why ever not?”

Clover wrung her hands. “I don’t know what care she needs.”

Young Mrs Grubb smiled at her, kindly. “She’s not incapable. She can walk a few steps at a time, if aided, and she’s still in full possession of her faculties. I just need someone available to help her if I’m otherwise occupied or in need of a break. I tried enlisting Abelia, but she’s still so flighty and it hardly seemed fair to—” She hesitated, and cleared her throat.

“Victoria didn’t always need her chair, you see. She had a sort of fit after my husband died. Asking Abelia to look after her grandmother was a bit much in those circumstances. I’m not leaving you alone. The lads are here if there are any emergencies, and Mistress Victoria will certainly tell you if there’s anything she needs. I shan’t be long.”

Clover nodded. “Yes, madam.” She still wasn’t sure she was comfortable with these circumstances, but what else could she say?

Young Mrs Grubb directed her to the parlour where the other two ladies of the house were sat. There were even more books in here and Abelia was reading one out loud, her head bent low. Her lips were coloured a deep red and her dark brown hair did not reach her shoulders. She wore a bright yellow dress with plenty of flounces, and a string of pearls around her neck. Two further teardrop pearls hung from her ears.

_“Knowing that the ruse was over, Pavlo Maidstone leapt through the window, leaving his aunt and the Barker sisters squabbling in the par—_ Can I go now, Mother? It’s so dull!”

Old Mrs Grubb scowled. “That, young lady, is one of the greatest comedies of our time.”

“Then why isn’t it funny?”

“I’d prefer if you stayed in the smial until I return from the market,” Young Mrs Grubb said quickly. “But you don’t need to sit with Grandmother anymore. Thank you for your help.”

“No! It’s not finished yet,” Old Mrs Grubb said as Abelia gratefully flung the book aside and rushed over out of the room.

“Abbie has been very patient and she deserves a break,” Young Mrs Grubb said, picking the book back up and putting it neatly away on a bookshelf. “I’ve brought your new attendant to keep you company.”

Old Mrs Grubb sharply turned her head to Clover, as though only seeing her for the first time. “Oh. Yes. I remember you. Sit there,” she said, pointing to a seat across from her wheelchair.

Clover stiffly walked over to the settee and sat down, feeling the sharp gaze of Old Mrs Grubb on her.

“I’m sure you’ll get along famously,” Young Mrs Grubb said dryly before taking her leave.

Clover and Old Mrs Grubb sat in silence for a time. The old lady was watching her with narrow eyes, still as a fox spying on its prey. Clover kept her eyes cast downwards to show deference.

“I suppose you think you’re very clever,” Old Mrs Grubb said eventually.

“Couldn’t say, madam.”

“Liar.” Mrs Grubb leaned back in her chair and absentmindedly tapped the armrest. “Can’t stand people like that. So I ask again: do you think you’re clever?”

Clover raised her eyes defiantly. Old Mrs Grubb wasn’t the sort of lady who would tolerate her affected subservience. “Yes, madam.”

Mrs Grubb grinned evilly. “That’s better. And do you think you’re sharper than me?”

Clover considered her answer before replying. How honest did she dare to be? “Probably. But I can’t say for sure seeing as I don’t know you very well.”

Abelia re-entered the room with a large scrapbook under one arm and settled down on the settee beside Clover.

“Decided to grace us with your presence, have you?” Old Mrs Grubb said. “I thought I was too dreary for you.”

“The light in my room isn’t good enough. I need a window.” She opened the book and started to shuffle through sketches kept within.

Old Mrs Grubb took a noisy drink of tea and turned her eyes to Clover once again. “You think a lot of yourself for someone so small. Is it earned?”

“It will be. One day.” Clover had been distracted by Abelia, who kept on glancing at her every couple of seconds. It was only now she remembered herself and added, “Madam.”

“How old are you?” Abelia said, watching Clover with interested, innocent eyes.

“Ladies don’t ask that of other ladies,” Old Mrs Grubb said severely.

“I’m of age, miss,” Clover said.

“You don’t look it.”

“It’s my height,” Clover said mildly.

The lass nodded slowly. She herself was a good six inches taller than Clover.

Mrs Grubb put her cup back in the saucer with a clatter. “And how old do you think I am, girl?”

“Couldn’t say, madam.”

“Guess.”

Clover considered for a moment. “I suppose if I was to say no more than a hundred, you’d scold me for flattery?”

“Well done.”

“In which case I’d have to say… More than eleventy-five.”

“Close.” She clapped her hands. “I’m one hundred and twenty!”

Clover smiled blandly. “You look well for it.”

“Thank you.” She settled back in her wheelchair. “You have me to thank for the position, you know. If it weren’t for me Campanula would have taken in some simpering little slip of a thing. Like Petunia. She thinks I’m mad. Do you know why I chose you?”

“No,” Clover said truthfully.

Mrs Grubb narrowed her eyes. “Are you being honest with me?”

“I am, madam. I reckon if I was in your place I’d have sent the likes of me off with a kick up the backside.”

The old lady snickered. “That’s frank enough. You’ll catch flies, Abbie.”

Abelia quickly shut her open mouth and made a show of focussing on her sketch. Old Mrs Grubb turned to Clover.

“When you’re as close to death as I am you realise it’s all meaningless. All of it. You spend half your life trying to appease others with etiquette and false niceties, and what does it come to in the end? I like a person who’s not afraid to speak their mind. They’ve got the right idea. So don’t try any more of that ‘I’m sure I couldn’t say, begging your pardon, madam’ with me. I see through you, missy.”

Clover wasn’t sure what to say. Being seen through wasn’t a situation she was familiar with, and she didn’t like it. She was quickly having to re-evaluate her assertion that she was sharper than Old Mrs Grubb.

“I see.”

Mrs Grubb said nothing more, leaning back and staring at the ceiling with a blank face.

After an uncomfortable length of time had passed Clover cleared her throat and said, “What would you have me do, madam, until Mistress Campanula returns?”

The old lady made a vague gesture with one of her hands. “Talk to me. Amuse me.”

Clover folded her hands in her lap. Trying to think of what to talk about was one of the hardest things in the world. “So what you’re saying, madam…” she said slowly, “is that you had an unfair dislike of your old servant, you summoned me because you find it funny that I’m a low-born lass who don’t know my place an’ you thought it would be nice for you if I could be your fool an’ amuse you with my over-importance.”

Old Mrs Grubb grinned. “That’s the stuff.”

* * *

The day continued. Young Mrs Grubb showed her how to wax the floors, where all the crockery and cooking utensils were kept and the proper way to serve in front of company, among other things.

Clover returned to the kitchen, which was like walking into a wall made of fire. “I’ve laid the table, madam, if it’s to your liking.”

“I’ll take a look,” Young Mrs Grubb said as she finished carving the lamb. She lifted the plate to take with her. “Could you take the carrots and potatoes?”

It took three trips for both of them, but together they got the table fully laid with food and drink.

Mrs Grubb sighed and put her hands on her hips as she looked over the half-full serving bowls. “Victoria shan’t be happy. But what can I do if there’s so little at the market?”

“Would you like me to stay and serve during the meal, madam?”

She tucked a damp lock of hair behind her hear. “No. No, that won’t be necessary today.” She fiddled with her apron strings. “If could just tell the others that dinner is ready, that would be a great help. I’ve left your serving in the kitchen.”

With Young Mrs Grubb’s children summoned, and Old Mrs Grubb wheeled into the dining room, Clover finally returned to the kitchen and the plate on the central table. There was a door connecting the kitchen and dining room and as Clover picked at her food she could hear strains of the family’s conversation from the other room.

This might have been the only time in her life she’d eaten her dinner on her own.

When she had finished washing up Clover brought a full tea tray to the parlour, carefully opening the door.

Young Mrs Grubb was sat at the writing desk, while the lads were on the settee and Abelia was ensconced in an armchair, drawing.

Young Mrs Grubb cast Clover an aside glance as she set the tray down on the tea table. “Well done. You remembered.”

Clover set about preparing the tea. She handed a cup to each family member while pretending she wasn’t listening to the conversation Dalgo and his grandmother were having.

“Family traits don’t work like that,” Old Mrs Grubb said as Clover handed her a cup of tea. “If you’d given it any thought you would have realised you’re only half-Grubb. As was your father. You’re as much a Bolger as you are a Grubb.”

“And you were as much a Bolger as you were a Clayhanger,” Dalgo said dismissively.

“Why do you know that?” Abelia said, looking up from her drawing.

He shrugged a shoulder. “As someone who contributes towards the construction of family trees I take a professional interest.” He saw Clover approaching him with a cup and said, “No milk or sugar for me.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, handing him the already prepared tea.

He looked at the contents of the cup and then back at her with an expression that said: _How did you know before I’d told you?_

“So what was Grandmother Clayhanger’s maiden name?” Old Mrs Grubb said, grinning.

“Headstrong,” Dalgo and Monno said in unison.

Dalgo’s head whipped around to face him. Monno raised his eyes up from his book and the corner of his mouth lifted in a smile.

“How far back can you go?” Abelia said.

“Far enough,” Dalgo said.

Abelia put her scrapbook aside and shifted so she was sat cross-legged in the armchair. “I clap my hands, and every time I do you have to go back a generation.”

Monno set his book down and leaned forward in his seat, a bright smile on his face.

“Ready?” She clapped her hands.

“Gold,” Dalgo and Monno said.

_Clap_.

“Banks.”

_Clap_.

“Underhill.”

_Clap._

Monno winced and covered his face with his hands. “I know this…”

Dalgo smiled faintly. “Headstrong again.”

Monno clicked his fingers. “Yes!”

Clover had finished serving the tea by this point, but couldn’t quite bring herself to leave. She had no heritage that she knew of, and this conversation was unlike anything that would take place in her own home.

“Can you name any more?” Abelia said, looking at Dalgo.

“One or two, but the records stop after that.”

There was silence. Then Abelia slowly turned her head towards Dalgo. “That’s only one line. Do you know others?”

Dalgo picked up a book from an end table and started to flick through it nonchalantly. “A few.”

“I don’t believe you, you little know-it-all!” Abelia said, laughing.

“Are you waiting for further instruction, Clover?” Young Mrs Grubb said without looking up from her writing.

Clover started. She had forgotten she wasn’t supposed to still be there. “Yes, madam.”

“Well, you can make the beds, and then I think that will be all for today. Thank you for your work.”

“Madam.” Clover curtseyed and left the room.

“What do you think of her, then?” Young Mrs Grubb said, dipping her quill back in the inkpot. “Any issues?”

“Hmm? Oh, all perfectly fine, Mother. No problems,” Monno said, smiling as looked up briefly from his book.

“Good. At least someone’s being helpful.” She scowled at Abelia and Dalgo, who had gone back to their drawing and reading respectively.

“Of course she was going to be helpful. She turned up the day after Petunia gave her notice,” Old Mrs Grubb said. “Shows willingness.”

“Yes… I’d still like to know how she learned of it,” Young Mrs Grubb said. “I asked Clover about it and she said she heard of it through a Miss Hobble, though how she came to know of it I’ve no idea. Is she an acquaintance of any of yours?”

No one replied, and Young Mrs Grubb went back to her letter writing without asking any more questions. She didn’t notice how Monno’s posture stiffened or how he was staring very intently at the pages of his book.

* * *

When she was being shown around the smial Clover had wondered why the chambers for the master and mistress were at the very back. It was only now that she understood. The smial was so deep that it reached the other side of the bank, and the two rooms at the back had large, clear windows. Dalgo’s curtains were only slightly parted and the dark was descending, and only a sliver of light came through.

There were two more bookshelves in here, and Clover cast her eyes over them as she laid out the quilt. The shelves had been entirely filled, and even more books were stacked haphazardly on top of the neat rows. Most of them were damaged in some way with creases along the spine or worn-away corners. It looked like the leather had completely fallen apart on some volumes, which were now only held together with string.

But her gaze kept on falling on a small stack of books on the writing desk.

They were all exactly the same size and bound with identical brown leather. Unlike the shelved books, their spines were devoid of any writing. Though there was some damage to these, they were nowhere near the state of disrepair that the other books were in. One of them was set apart from the others, directly in front of the chair. It had obviously been read recently.

Clover moved over to the desk and set her candle down there. Careful not to disturb the layer of dust, she lifted the cover of the book on the top of the pile. She was surprised when she saw that the words inside were hand-written. She was so distracted that she didn’t hear the approaching feet.

“What are you doing?”

She snatched her hand away just as Dalgo brought his palm heavily down on the book cover.

“You are _not_ permitted to look through our private things, most especially you are not permitted to read my father’s journals!”

Clover backed away from him as the candlelight flashed in the lenses of his spectacles. She bent her head down in the hope this would show her contrition. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Do you even comprehend your good fortune?” he shouted. His figure loomed over her as he stepped closer. “That my family were so kind as to take you in, in spite of your impudence.”

“I know, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

“My grandmother suggested putting a shilling beneath a rug as a test of your integrity but Mother wouldn’t hear of it. Perhaps she will change her mind when I tell her of this.”

Without giving it much though Clover got down onto her knees.

The trick to being one’s own master was making others believe they were the ones with the power.

“Please, sir, I beg your forgiveness. I’m a dull, foolish lass who din’t know what she was doing.” Dalgo changed at this. No longer confrontational, he hung back uncertainly. Clover took a deep breath as she continued. This was either going to go very well or very badly.

“I din’t mean no harm, sir. I’ve never been among such finery before and I was curious as to why these books were of such obvious importance. I din’t realise how much of a wrong I was doing, simple as I am.” Clover ran her tongue over her top lip. The words had a bitter aftertaste, but they were necessary. She couldn’t see Dalgo’s face in the dark. “It’d be a great blow to my family if I returned home in disgrace after only a day. You’ve shown me a great kindness in allowing me to serve your family, an’ I beg you to show me such kindness again. I know you are kind.”

Dalgo swayed slightly where he stood. He walked around her, and leaned heavily on the desk. “Go,” he said bitterly, “and take your candle.”

Her skirt made a heady rustling sound as she stood and half-turned. There was a flickering golden outline to his profile, but she still couldn’t see his expression clearly.

“Is my position safe, sir?” she said softly.

“It won’t be if you don’t leave me this moment!”

Clover took the candle and lifted it from the desk.

“Be careful of the wax.”

“Yes, sir.” She held a hand before the candle flame as she moved. “Good night, sir. And thank you.”

When Dalgo failed to reply she turned away and didn’t look back into the shadows.

* * *

Clover turned over in her bed yet again. Perhaps this was what death was like. There was the clinging, inescapable darkness. So dark she could hardly breathe. Time seemed to have stagnated. Maybe she had been awake for an hour. Maybe four. There was no way to tell. Then there was the perfect, awful silence. There were no reassuring sounds of breathing to tell her that she was not alone, to tell her that the others were safe. Perhaps she had died, but didn’t know it yet.

No. Stupid idea.

But what was stupider was that she had longed for peace and a place that was only hers, and now she had both and wanted neither.

Clover turned her face into her pillow and started to cry.

* * *

Seven signatures were required for a Hobbit wedding: the registrar, the bride, the groom, and four witnesses. The witnesses could be anyone (family or friend) unless one or both of the couple were below the age of thirty-three. In that case at least one parent of the young party would need to be among the signatories, or the marriage wasn’t binding under the Shire law.

This had been the case with today’s wedding. The bride’s father had shot a filthy glare at the groom’s as he’d made his mark on the marriage certificate. The particular curve of the bride’s stomach gave away the reason for the unseasonal and premature wedding.

Monno had made himself comfortable in the corner, sipping a cup of tea as the dancers did their best to strip the willow in the too-small parlour.

A lass came to stand next to him.

“Lovely ceremony.”

“I thought we agreed not to speak in public,” he said, still looking at the dancers.

Primrose scowled. “ _You_ agreed, I didn’t.”

He turned his head sharply towards her. “Did you tell people about our old maid leaving?”

“What?”

“The new maidservant told Mother she knew about the position through you.”

Primrose sighed and rolled her eyes. “What’s wrong with that?”

“It’s a link. Don’t you see?”

“Would you care to dance, Miss Hobble?” a lad said, approaching her and offering his arm.

“No. Thank’ee,” Primrose said, and smiled. She watched as he went to find a different partner. “I’m not your dirty secret,” she said when the lad was out of earshot.

“I never thought you were!”

Primrose glared into the chaos in the centre of the room as the couples arranged themselves for the next dance. “You make me feel like it sometimes. There’s nothing odd about two wedding guests talking to each other.”

Monno made to take her hand, hesitated and placed a hand on her back. “You’re right. I didn’t mean to be such an ass, I’m sorry.”

“Mm.”

He tried to smile. “You look nice.”

“Thank you.”

He glanced over at the bride and groom, who weren’t dancing, and were wearing the same embarrassed and exhausted smiles they’d been wearing for most of the day. “I suppose they’ll be seeing more of you soon.”

Primrose pursed her lips coyly. “I’m sure I couldn’t say.”

Monno set the teacup aside. “I have time for one dance before I get back to the smial. Care to partner me?”

She raised her eyebrows slightly. “Won’t people talk?”

He grinned boyishly. “There’s nothing strange about two wedding guests dancing together.”

* * *

The day had passed uneventfully. Clients had come and gone, six meals had been served Old Mrs Grubb tolerated with vinegar-laced smiles—the kind she seemed to like best.

And then Young Mrs Grubb had said Clover’s duties were finished for the day.

So she had changed out of her new dress, and into an old, worn-out bodice and skirt. Now her feet were inevitably leading her down the well-trodden path back to the place of her birth.

She heard their laughter long before she saw them. Maizey, Danny and Martin were throwing the fallen autumn leaves at each other in the lane. Clover sighed as she approached.

It was Martin who spotted her first, dropping the leaves he’d been holding and jogging over to her. “Clover’s back!”

Clover didn’t stop or alter her pace, and he fell into walking beside her. “Hello, runt,” she said coolly. “How’s it down on the farm?”

“Me an’ the twins was sent to get firewood. I was a badger.”

Clover smiled. “Where’s your stripes?”

“I wasn’t _really_ a badger. We were just playing.”

“Ah. My mistake.”

Maizey grinned at her as they approached, and brushed a few straggly curls out of her face. “Hello, Clove, you old misery.”

“How old’re you?” Clover said, casting an eye over Maizey’s handful of leaves. “Ten, was it?”

“How old’re you—eighty? Can’t a person have fun?” Maizey said. She darted forward waving the leaves in Clover’s face.

Clover recoiled and pushed her hand away. “ _No_.”

Danny grinned, and approached her from the other side. “Don’t you like leaves, Clover?”

“Get away!” She dodged them and ran into the smial. She turned around to confront them. “Mum’ll throttle you if you bring them inside. Actually, _I’ll_ throttle you.”

“Clover?” Meg put her head around the kitchen door. She was drying a plate. “We weren’t expecting you again ‘til Friday.”

Clover folded her arms and cleared her throat uncomfortably. “I know. I just… wondered how you was all getting on without me.”

Meg half-smiled. “I see. We’re all right. You?”

“Good enough.”

Meg nodded towards the kitchen. “Would you like some tea?”

Clover nodded and followed her into the comforting familiarity of home. It would be a bit painful—her mother’s clinging affection and her father trying to make his displeasure just a little too obvious. And Jack wouldn’t let her forget this for a while. And the noise. And the mess. She hated herself a little bit for coming back so soon.

Not too much, though.


	17. Farewell, Dear Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dance featured in this chapter was (to the best of my knowledge) first recorded in the fourth edition of The Dancing Master by John Playford in 1670.

Tiger Lily kept her eyes cast down on the dressing table and winced as the comb caught a knot.

“Sorry, did I pull too hard?” her mother said.

“No,” Tiger Lily said. She risked a glance up at her reflection and winced again. “I hate my hair.”

“It’s lovely hair,” her mother cooed.

Tiger Lily turned away from her reflection again and huffed. Opal had glossy, ink-black ringlets that seemed to absorb all light that touched them. It wasn’t fair.

“I wonder who else will be there,” Mrs Took said as she set down the comb and started pinning Tiger Lily’s hair back.

“I’m not sure. Sango said Lavender would be there, but he didn’t mention anyone else.”

“Lavender?”

“His young lady.”

“Oh.” Her mother’s hands hesitated.

Tiger Lily glanced up at the mother’s face in the glass. She looked worried.

“Are you all right?” she said.

“Yes,” Tiger Lily said quickly. Then she remembered Sango was leaving, and it wasn’t quite as true anymore. “It’s a shame Father’s not here to see the Boffins off,” she said, hoping to divert the conversation.

Her mother made an odd half-laughing noise in response to this.

Mr Took didn’t enjoy social gatherings and would usually deliver weak excuses not to attend, only to be dragged along by his wife and/or brother anyway. Once there he would spend most of the time on the periphery of conversations they were having with other people, and would blankly refuse to dance with anyone but his wife.

Tiger Lily’s mother said nothing else until she had finished off her work with a pink ribbon. “There we are,” she said, smiling. “The lads will all be tripping over themselves to dance with you.”

“They’ve never seemed that keen on it in the past.” She bit her bottom lip and twisted around in the chair, looking up at Mrs Took. “But it will be different this time, won’t it, Mother? Now that I’ve stopped shooting?”

Her mother looked startled for a moment and then smiled. “Yes, I’m sure it will be.”

Tiger Lily turned to face the mirror again and smiled nervously. It would be all right. She had a chance.

Mrs Took sighed. “I should never have let Hortenbold talk me into letting you learn. Shall I cover this up again?” She held the shawl, which she had lain over the dressing table.

“Yes, please,” Tiger Lily said.

Mrs Took smiled sadly. “I didn’t like my reflection either when I was your age. I’m going to make sure Bandobold’s ready.”

“Yes, Mother,” Tiger Lily said, dabbing some jasmine oil behind her ears.

As soon as her mother had gone Tiger Lily opened one of the drawers of the dressing table and drew out a bottle and a small china pot. Opal had warmed her against using too much, or she would look like a hussy. Perhaps if she used little enough her mother wouldn’t even notice. She opened the pot and ran her finger across the red beeswax and dabbed it onto her lips. When she was done she rubbed a few drops of the carmine dye into each cheek and drew back the shawl to see her reflection.

She had hoped that painting her face would finally make her look pretty, or at least comely. Instead she looked like a little lass trying to look grown-up by breaking into her mother’s face paints. She stood and rushed to the washstand, splashing water over her face. Tiger Lily hunched over the bowl, looking into the water. Her reflection stared back, sparkling in the candlelight.

“Tiger Lily? Are you ready?”

She straightened her posture and dried her face with a towel. “Coming, Mother.”

* * *

“Don’t run on ahead. I don’t want you getting dirty,” Mrs Took called after Bandobold. He didn’t slow down at all, either not hearing or not caring about what his mother had said. She turned to her sister-in-law.

“I am glad you enjoyed Michel Delving. I think we’ll be going at some point after the New Year. New gowns for the spring, you know.”

“I had a new gown this year,” Tiger Lily said.

She was walking alongside her mother and Aunt Mertensia as they made their way through the town to Boffin’s Farm. Opal and Uncle Hortenbold were trailing behind, too far away for Tiger Lily to hear their conversation.

Aunt Mertensia smiled. “It’s important for a young lady to look her best. You never know who’ll be at a party.” She laughed. “You might meet a fairy prince in disguise.”

Tiger Lily looked away sullenly. She didn’t want a fairy prince. Fairy princes weren’t _real_. They didn’t have warm hands with rough skin, or deep laughs that made her insides feel light.

She noticed a group of low-born lads in the grocer’s—which was really just stacks of boxes under a canopy sheet to keep the rain off. Rob was among them. Most of the lads were talking with Mr Seller who ran the place, but Rob was standing a little way off and leaning against one of the legs that kept the sheet up. His large arms were folded across his chest, but he tugged his cap at her as she went past.

There was a rough tug on Tiger Lily’s arm. “Don’t look at them.”

She looked around in surprise at her mother, who had spoken. “Why?”

Mrs Took firmly looped her arm around Tiger Lily’s. “Just keep your eyes ahead and stick close to me.”

Tiger Lily looked around again. The lads were trailing away now, and Rob glanced at her and gave a small smile as he followed them. He seemed so impossibly far away…

Her mother jostled her arm again, holding her tighter. “I told you not to look.”

“But _why_?” Tiger Lily said desperately.

“Scoundrels, the lot of them. Who knows what kind of trouble they’re causing for that poor shopkeeper?”

There hadn’t been any raised voices, and the lads hadn’t looked vicious, but Tiger Lily said nothing.

It was Rob she’d originally had in mind when she’d asked Opal to fetch her the face paints from Michel Delving. Tiger Lily was supposed to be meeting him again tomorrow evening. She still needed to make a decision on whether or not this really was the last time. Reason told her it should be. It would be.

And yet…

* * *

“The dinner won’t be as big as I was planning. You wouldn’t believe how difficult it was getting enough food in,” Mr Boffin said as the Tooks were relieved of their cloaks and hats by a pair of servants. Only one or two other guests seemed to have arrived, and the house was unnervingly quiet for how many people would fill it by the end of the evening.

“It’s a shame it won’t be an adequate farewell after how long you’ve been here. I’m sorry to see you go, Boffers,” Uncle Hortenbold said, shaking his hand.

“Excuse me, Mr Boffin,” Tiger Lily said in a very quiet voice. “Do you know where Sango is, please?”

“I believe he’s still getting ready in his chamber, though he should nearly be finished if you wish to see him.”

She found the door to his bedroom open, and Sango stood in front of a full-length mirror. He was looking far too neat for her taste.

“How do I look?” he said, holding his lapels and turning to see himself in profile.

Tiger Lily leaned against the doorway, folding her arms. “Very handsome. You face is too squashy, but I’m not sure what we can do about that.”

“Yes, very funny,” he said and started trying to comb some order into his hair. “I need a pin for my cravat. There are some on the dresser there.”

She gave him a withering look through the mirror and went to the dresser. “I’m not your skivvy.”

“The one shaped like an oak leaf, please.”

She went to the dresser without further complaint. It was covered with cravats that had been considered and rejected. “Are you sure there’s a dresser under here?”

“Supposedly. I’ve heard legends.”

She started to gather up the discarded cravats, slinging them over one arm. “How many pins do you _have_?” she said, looking at the tie pins scattered among the books and paper that covered the dresser. She could see at least nine. “Why do you need all these?”

“It’s proper to take pride in one’s appearance,” he said. “And you can’t talk, I’ve seen how many ribbons you have.”

“That’s hardly my fault. Uncle Hortenbold gives me one every year as my kinship gift.”

Tiger Lily hung a green cravat over her arm, uncovering a piece of paper. Picking it up she found it was a poem. She caught the words ‘Lavender’ and ‘honeyed air’.

She watched Sango from the corner of her eye. He hadn’t noticed. She suspected there was a reason he hadn’t made a rebuff when she had made fun of his appearance. It was for this same reason that she placed the paper face down on the dresser without comment. A glint of gold caught her eye and she picked up the tiny oak leaf pin. She dumped the bundle of cravats on the dresser.

“Hold still.” She pinned the little gold leaf in place on the red silk around his neck.

“You’re not meant to tell people about your kinship gifts,” Sango said.

“I’m not telling _people_ , only you. There’s a clear distinction there.”

“Thank you very much, Tiger Lily,” he said, turning away from her. “Now I know where I stand with you.”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant,” she said, her dismay rising. He turned and she saw he was smiling, and then she was smiling too. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Do I?”

“Yes.”

She paused and looked around the room. The dresser was the only mess there; everything else had been packed away in boxes.

“I wish you weren’t leaving,” she said.

“Let’s not think about that. Tonight is supposed to be fun.”

It was very easy to say that, but so much harder to believe it. Sango could probably manage it, but Tiger Lily was sure she couldn’t.

“So how are you going to spend the evening?” he said with determined brightness.

She frowned as she thought about it. “I think… I want to dance with someone.”

He raised an eyebrow and paired it with a puzzled smile. “You hate dancing.”

“It’s been such a long time that I don’t think it could be as bad as I remember. And I’d like…” She smiled uncertainly. “I’d like to be chosen by someone.”

“That husband you’re after?”

Something about that suggestion made her uneasy. “Maybe. I would settle for a friend.” She sighed. “How are you going to spend the evening?”

Sango grinned. “I’m going to drink as much as I possibly can and make a complete fool of myself.”

Tiger Lily smiled. “I’m not sure about the first one, but you shouldn’t have any difficulty with the second.”

She ducked out of the way as he threw a handful of cravats at her head.

* * *

The guests had arrived steadily and now it was more crowded than Tiger Lily would have liked. After dinner (which had been meagre by the standards of a Hobbit party) the tables had been moved to the side to make room for the dances. Sango had started dancing as soon as the music began and Tiger Lily had quickly lost track of him. Meanwhile, she had chosen to stay close by her mother as she chatted with the other married ladies.

The song had just ended and the dancers began to rearrange themselves. Tiger Lily looked desperately at the various lads that walked by. They didn’t look back; oblivious to her presence. She looked down at the floor. They didn’t want her.

“Are all of your children here?” Mrs Took said. “It feels like an age since I’ve seen Dalgo.”

“He’s here somewhere,” Young Mrs Grubb said. Tiger Lily thought there was something strange about her smile. Something disingenuous.

“Is Mistress Victoria well?” she said quietly. _Just be nice to her and she’ll forgive your transgressions. That’s what Rowley said._

Young Mrs Grubb smiled faintly. “Quite well. Very well, in fact. It gives me hope for when I’m infirm.”

“I shan’t hear of that,” Uncle Hortenbold said. “What will I be by the time you’re infirm?”

Young Mrs Grubb smiled. “You look well. Both of you.”

“Michel Delving agreed with me,” Aunt Mertensia said.

“And having my lasses safely home agrees with me,” Uncle Hortenbold said.

“I can see that. Your Opal’s doing magnificently tonight, I must say.” She glanced towards the piano, where Opal had parked herself. Buffo was stood over her as she played, ostensibly to turn the pages of the music. “I wish Abelia could play like that. She doesn’t have the patience to practice.”

A maidservant passed, carrying a tray of full wine glasses. Tiger Lily reached out for one.

“No,” he mother said firmly, taking her arm and forcing it back down to her side. Tiger Lily glared at her.

“One drink won’t hurt, Peony,” Young Mrs Grubb said. “I’ve started letting Abelia drink at parties and no harm’s come of it.”

Tiger Lily’s mother sniffed. “I’m sure you may raise your daughter as you like, Campanula.”

Young Mrs Grubb smiled coldly. “Indeed.” She curtseyed before sweeping away. “I really must speak with Mrs Goodenough. Good evening.”

Aunt Mertensia stared hard at the floor as she sipped her own wine. Opal had been allowed to drink wine in moderation from the age of twenty-two. The music silenced again, and the dancers milled about accordingly.

“Have you heard that Crystal Brandybuck is getting married again?” Aunt Mertensia said.

“Oh, I know,” Tiger Lily’s mother said. “Whatever is she thinking of, at her age?”

“I’m sure I don’t know. I couldn’t do it.”

“That’s of some comfort, I supposed,” Uncle Hortenbold murmured.

“Mm,” Tiger Lily’s mother gave a little smile as she drank her wine. “You know what they say about widows who remarry…”

“I don’t,” Tiger Lily piped. “What do they say?”

Aunt Mertensia smiled to herself as she drank from her glass. Uncle Hortenbold sighed witheringly. “This is neither the time nor the place.”

“Tooks!”

Tiger Lily looked out to see Sango making his way towards them, his arm linked with Lavender’s.

“Who’s that lass with him?” her mother said from the corner of her mouth.

“His young lady. I told you about her earlier,” Tiger Lily said in a hushed voice.

Her mother looked at her disbelievingly. “Has her family had some sort of misfortune?”

“Hello, Tooks,” Sango said, bowing.

“Finally remembered us, have you?” Uncle Hortenbold said.

“Well, I’ve been saving it,” he said with a smile. “You can’t begin the evening with the most esteemed guests.”

Lavender snickered. “He’s been saying that to everyone.”

“It was true every time,” Sango said. He lifted two glasses of wine from the tray of a maid and handed one to Lavender.

_You honestly mean that, don’t you?_ Tiger Lily thought. _Strange lad._

Aunt Mertensia smiled at Lavender in polite confusion. “I’m sorry, what was your name again?”

“Lavender.”

“And your family name?”

The veneer of confidence wavered as a touch of uncertainty entered Lavender’s expression. “Hobble.”

“Ah. Yes, we use your father’s services when our carriage needs attention. A good worker.” She sipped her wine.

“Yes, madam.” Lavender tried to smile. “Course, my dad don’t do much in the workshop anymore…”

“No. Of course.”

There was a tense silence, which was only broken by Sango, who emptied his glass and cleared his throat. “Have you had that dance yet, Tills?” he said.

“No,” Tiger Lily said flatly.

“She’s quite content to stand with me,” her mother said brightly, patting her arm.

Tiger Lily looked sullenly at Sango and said nothing.

There was something of a flicker behind his eyes, then he grinned and whispered in Lavender’s ear. Lavender gave him a perplexed smile before disappearing off into the fray.

“Well, if you can bear to be parted from your family, I would be delighted if you would give me this dance.”

Tiger Lily warily let him take her hand and lead her to the dancefloor, where two other couples were lining up for the next dance—lads on the left, lasses on the right, hand in hand.

“What are you doing?” Tiger Lily said.

“I believe it’s called the Black Nag.”

“You know full well that’s not what I meant.”

As the music started they and the other couples took three steps forward and three steps back.

“I don’t think I know this one too well,” Tiger Lily said, watching the lass in front of her and doing her best to copy her steps.

“It’s not too difficult. I’ll guide you through.”

They turned to face each other and waited as the first and second couples did their bits.

“So what are you up to?” she said.

Sango grinned. “It’s a plan.”

“Very nice. So are—” She was interrupted when their turn came, and they side-skipped for four. “So are you going to tell me what it is?”

She let go of his hands and copied the other dancers, spinning around in a tight circle before taking his hands again and skipping back the way they’d come. “I hate being the top couple,” she muttered.

“Technically we’re the bottom couple.”

“What’s your plan and how does it involve me?”

They started to pace forwards and backwards, meeting shoulder to shoulder when they reached each other.

“I take you as a partner,” Sango said.

They met in the middle again.

“Lavender takes another lad as a partner.”

And again.

“And when this dance is over we swap.”

They came back to their original positions. The lad on the top couple started to side-skip across towards Tiger Lily.

“This is you,” Sango hissed.

“What?”

“You switch places with him.”

Tiger Lily’s stomach gave a lurch as she went to swap places with the lad. Because she was late she wasn’t able to skip in time to the music and had to scuttle into place as quickly as she could. She found herself stood across from Lavender, who winked at her before bounding away.

Tiger Lily stood as still as she could. She thought she could feel people watching her. The other dancers probably thought she was a fool. Sango filled the space left by Lavender.

“Hello,” he said.

“I’m a dolt.”

“It’s just a little mistake. No one minds. You and he switch back after we turn.”

Tiger Lily avoided making eye contact with the lad as they passed each other. As before, Sango switched places with Lavender so that everyone was stood in their original places.

“It’s a really lovely thought, Rowley,” she said. “The plan, I mean.”

She and Sango linked arms and turned about each other.

“But…?” he said.

“But it’s not the same as if I find a partner myself.”

The changed direction.

“The ends are the same,” Sango said. “I could be dancing with Lavender, but I’m trying to help you instead.”

“But he didn’t choose _me_. And he won’t want to embarrass himself with me now.”

Sango rolled his eyes as they returned to their places. “Why do you always catastrophise every little—?”

He was cut off as he and the other lads started to dance around each other in a complicated figure of eight. He stumbled slightly, and his cheeks went pink as he laughed.

Tiger Lily’s stomach sank as she lost track of the steps. _Oh, no…_

As Sango returned to his place Lavender and the other lass started to move around each other. Tiger Lily blundered her way through the phrase, weaving between them. She bumped into Lavender as she was returning to her own place.

“Sorry!”

As she reached her place the music ended and Sango bowed, smiling sheepishly. “Not too bad?” he said.

Tiger Lily made a face as she and the other ladies curtseyed.

“Sorry,” he said.

“You needn’t be.” She walked forward to meet him as the other dancers started milling around. “It really was very kind of you. But I think I need a moment. I’m not feeling very well.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Lavender was coming towards them with her dancing partner on her arm. “Shall we swap, Sango, love?”

“I don’t think I’ll take the next dance, actually,” he said. “I’m a little thirsty, shall we get some more wine?”

She frowned. “But—”

“I’ll explain while we walk.” He took her hand and led her away.

Tiger Lily went to stand next to an open window. Leaning against the wall she felt the cool air on her face. In the light from the party she could see the leaves of a tree outside moving in the wind. They would be making a rustling noise. She would be able to hear it if it weren’t for the party. It was so tantalisingly close…

“Are you all right? You’re pale.”

Tiger Lily turned her head towards Opal’s voice. But Buffo was standing directly behind her, and when Tiger Lily opened her mouth to speak she couldn’t make a sound.

“Fetch some wine, would you, Buffo?” Opal said. “For fortification.”

He gave a shallow bow. “I am your humble servant.”

“Don’t be facetious.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Tiger Lily was still leaning with one hand against the wall as Buffo walked away. She was feeling fragile.

“I haven’t seen you dance for years,” Opal said, massaging her wrist. “Since… when was it?”

“The Thain’s accession,” Tiger Lily mumbled. “Opal, it was awful. I made so many mistakes.”

“Did you? I didn’t notice.”

“Of course you didn’t, you were playing.”

“A good musician only needs sheet music as a fail-safe. I could play the Black Nag in my sleep.”

“What do they say about widows who remarry?”

“What?”

Tiger Lily closed her eyes. Her head was fuzzy, and she latched onto this one tangible thought. “They said that a Brandybuck widow was getting married, and that it’s bad, and that people say things about widows.”

“Here we are, ladies,” Buffo said as he returned with two glasses of wine, and handed one to each lass.

Tiger Lily couldn’t look him in the eye as she quietly thanked him.

“Not for me,” Opal said. “I had a glass at dinner. Why don’t you take it for yourself and leave us for a little bit?”

“I see. I’m the help now, am I?”

“We’re going to talk about ladies’ things. Flowers and babies and such. You wouldn’t be interested.”

“I see. I know where my company isn’t welcome,” he said amiably, and kissed Opal on the cheek. “I shall find some less interesting company.”

As soon as he had turned away Tiger Lily tipped the contents of her glass down her throat.

Opal raised an eyebrow. “I find it’s better to savour the taste.”

“I don’t have the patience for that.” Tiger Lily set the glass heavily down on the windowsill. “Please tell me what they say about the widows.”

Opal shook her head disbelievingly. “A few things, I suppose. It’s certainly unusual. I suppose it implies a lack of tenderness. Maybe that she cuckolded her husband.”

“But…” Tiger Lily thought to the family tree in the morning room. “Hardly any widows remarry.”

“I suppose that’s part of it. What does it tell you about the ones who do?”

“What about a widower?”

“Oh, I don’t know. He’d be an oddity, I suppose.”

Tiger Lily widened her eyes. “Would he be a rake?”

“True rakes rarely marry. To my understanding.”

The current dance was coming to an end. It might have been the wine (or, more likely, the belief that it was the wine) but Tiger Lily was feeling better and looked hopefully at the groups of lads stood on the other side of the hall.

“I’m going to ask one of them to dance,” she said. “Is that allowed?”

Opal shrugged. “Unorthodox but not quite improper. Off you go, then.”

But Tiger Lily’s feet remained firmly where they were; immovable. No matter how badly she wanted it, she couldn’t make herself go to them. Feeling that she’d been defeated, she turned to Opal again. “How do you make them notice you?”

Opal sighed resignedly. “It should help that you’ve left your mother’s company. Hold your head up high. You’re a Took, for pity’s sake.”

Tiger Lily slowly lifted her chin up until she was looking at the ceiling.

“Not that high.” She sighed again. “Why don’t you join me and Buffo? I’m sure he could make some introductions.”

“No,” Tiger Lily said firmly. “You’ve been in his company for the last two weeks, why do you want to spend so much time with him?”

“I’m not going to dignify that with a response.”

Then Opal was gone, and Tiger Lily was alone again.

She didn’t get a partner for that dance, or the next, or the one after that. By the fourth it occurred to her that most of the tweenagers had disappeared. Most noticeable was Sango’s absence. She moved through the crowd and craned her neck to see over the heads of the other guests but she could see nothing of him or Lavender. There wasn’t any sign of the other Boffins either.

Tiger Lily slipped out into the dark, cool passage outside. No one was out here, but now she was away from the music and chatter of the other guests, she could make out the voices of Mr and Mrs Boffin. She followed the sound, and found them stood in a gloomy alcove. They didn’t see her and she hesitated, not wanting to interrupt what seemed to be an important conversation. But when it quickly became evident that they were talking about Sango, she couldn’t quite bring herself to walk away.

“It’s absolutely shameful, Sara,” Mr Boffin said. “For him to have that little hussy on his arm.”

“I don’t like it any more than you do,” Mrs Boffin said with a sigh. “But please try to calm yourself. Remember what Mr Brownlock said about your nerves?”

“But for him to parade her in front of everyone like that! What if he makes an offer for her?”

“I agree we have to do something, but you need to stop getting ahead of yourself. Making a scene won’t do anything to help.”

“I can’t be content until they’ve parted ways. That minx knows what she’s doing. He’s soft-headed. She’s going to entrap him with a child—”

“Really, Longo…”

“—and he’ll never question why it doesn’t look like him.” He covered his face with his hands. “Wheelwrights for in-laws…”

Tiger Lily made an involuntary whimpering noise, and Mr and Mrs Boffin’s head snapped around to face her. When he saw her Mr Boffin grimaced and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Hello, dear,” Mrs Boffin said in a trembling voice, and gave her husband a sharp nudge with her elbow. “Can we help you with anything?”

“No,” she squeaked. “I didn’t mean to intrude but I was looking for Sango and I heard you and Mr Boffin and I thought you might know where he is but I didn’t want to interrupt and I’m sorry. I’ll go now.”

“I don’t know where he is, I’m afraid,” Mrs Boffin said as Tiger Lily attempted to escape. “But I am glad to see you. Do you remember that little conversation we had about your impression of Miss Hobble?”

Tiger Lily wrung her fingers. “Yes…”

“Well, now that I’ve met her properly, I’m of the opinion that she isn’t at all suited to Sango. You agree, don’t you, dear?”

“Um…”

“Do you think you could convince him of it?” Mr Boffin said, nudging his wife out of the way as he stepped forward. “Make him see sense?”

Tiger Lily backed away turning her face towards the ground. Her arms stayed rigid at her sides. She felt more alone than she had all evening.

“Sango listens to you, you see,” Mrs Boffin said, and laughed nervously. “Goodness knows he pays no mind to us.”

Mr Boffin regarded Tiger Lily severely. “You needn’t be too direct if you’re unsure. The odd word, here or there.”

She knew she should say something, but couldn’t move her tongue. She wasn’t completely sure what the implications of this proposal were, but she knew she didn’t like it and made to turn away.

“Don’t you want what’s best for him?” Mr Boffin said, his eyes hardening in the darkness.

Best for him?

She hesitated and looked at Sango’s parents, wide-eyed. “She could cause him harm?”

“Yes,” Mr Boffin said. “Great harm. You would be doing a very good thing.”

There was little she wouldn’t do for Sango, and the idea that Lavender was bad for him planted doubt in her mind.

“Sorry. I need to find Sango,” she mumbled as she turned away and rushed back down the corridor as quickly as propriety allowed.

Tiger Lily still hadn’t made full sense of the first conversation she and Mrs Boffin had had about Lavender, but she knew she didn’t want a return to it. Even if the party was full of eyes and people, at least there she wouldn’t have to answer questions she didn’t understand. It was frightening, and what made it worse was _knowing_ that she didn’t understand.

The door to the dining room was open, and Sango was just coming out, looking puzzled. He had taken his jacket off and was looking just like his usual self, if a little flushed in the face. Tiger Lily had started running without realising it, and barrelled into him at full speed.

“Oof!”

He staggered backwards as she latched on to him.

“Steady on, you only saw me a few minutes ago,” he said, laughing.

Tiger Lily buried her face in his chest. She had always been secretly pleased that Sango hadn’t taken to a pipe, and that his old, comforting smell hadn’t been overpowered by smoke. She needed it now. Rose-water, hay and… wine. The last one was new and disconcerting.

Sango gently eased her away to look her in the eye. His face was inquisitive. “What’s the matter?”

She shook her head as she did her best to put her fright aside. “I lost you.”

“We’re all in the morning room. Get away from the parents. I came to find you.”

He took her hand and led her out of the dark corridor as she allowed trust to replace her anxiety. Being with him was like coming home after a long absence. Whatever else there was in the world, there was always Sango: real, familiar and safe. She would follow him wherever he led her.

The morning room was filled with tweenagers, though there were one or two there who were in their early thirties, including Monno Grubb and Opal. Buffo was also there—the eldest in the room by a considerable margin—and was sat beside her on a settee, one arm draped lazily along the back. Rico and Abelia were there, as was Lorna Goodenough. There were others, but Tiger Lily didn’t recognise them. There was a tea table in the centre of the room, littered with wine bottles at various stages of being emptied.

“Everyone, this is Opal’s cousin: Tiger Lily,” Sango said.

“The elusive Miss Took,” a lass sat in an armchair said. “Rowley mentions you so often, but you never seem to be there at parties. Aren’t you a sweet little thing with your bows?”

Tiger Lily tugged at her hair self-consciously. “Uh… thank you, Miss…?”

“Celestine.”

“Would you like to sit here?” Monno said, rising from his place on a settee.

“No, don’t, I’m—”

“Nonsense. You’re a lady.” He pulled up a footstool to sit on.

She looked at the floor as she walked to the settee, digging her nails into her forearm. “Thank you, Mr Grubb.”

The lad who had been sat beside Monno held a hand out when she settled down. “Jesco Brownlock.”

Even if she didn’t recognise him, she certainly recognised the family name. Mr Brownlock (Jesco’s father, she assumed) was the only doctor in Bywater, and was patronised by most of the well-to-do Hobbits. With her own father’s susceptibility to colds and flus, she had seen a fair amount of Mr Brownlock over the years.

She cautiously took the hand. “Tiger Lily Took…”

He raised an eyebrow. “I gathered.”

She winced. “Oh. Of course. Sorry.”

She looked out over the collected scene. Monno probably hated her for taking his seat. And Jesco Brownlock probably hated her as well, because now he was stuck with her when he hadn’t asked to be. Probably none of them wanted the intrusion into their group. They must all resent her horribly. Tiger Lily couldn’t allow herself to sit comfortably, and remained perched on the very edge of her seat.

“Would you like some wine, Tills?” Sango said, pouring a healthy amount into his own glass.

“No, thank you.”

But looking around Tiger Lily realised that she was the only one in the room without a glass, and that by declining she had isolated herself again. It was too late now, as Sango had settled on the arm of Lavender’s chair. She couldn’t pour wine for herself either; it would look odd so soon after she’d declined Sango’s offer. What would the others think?

“What are we talking about?” Sango said, suppressing a belch.

“Just the three absconders,” Rico said. “I think they went to find Mad Baggins. You know old Frodo never actually believed he was dead.”

“He must be by now,” Sango said. “Surely.”

“Of course he is,” Master Brownlock said. “And now Frodo’s dragged the Thain’s and Master’s heirs along with him.” He tapped his temple. “Cracked. Completely.”

“I think perhaps this discussion should be postponed until after they’ve been found,” Monno said. “It doesn’t seem right to talk like this when they may be in danger. And, you know, Mr Baggins always seemed a perfectly nice fellow, if a little… distant.”

“Frankly, I’m surprised any of you can remember old Mad Baggins,” Buffo said, taking a sip of wine.

“I remember him,” Opal said. “I rather liked him, but I think that was because he always brought presents with him. I was such a selfish little beast.” She laughed.

“One could make the argument that you still are.”

“Brute!” Opal said, and tutted.

One thing Tiger Lily noticed was that Opal had a full glass of wine in her hands. She had accepted a glass she had no intention of drinking so she could remain a part of the group while staying sober enough to keep her dignity. It was odd, Tiger Lily thought, how Opal was always exactly what she needed to be without any apparent effort.

“What about you, Tiger Lily?” Rico said with a sneer slight enough that it could have been mistaken for a normal smile. “Did you like Mad Baggins?”

Her heart suddenly started beating very quickly. She opened her mouth to try and reply, but couldn’t find the words.

“You were a little frightened of him, weren’t you?” Sango said, looking at her encouragingly.

Tiger Lily nodded slowly, grateful for the prompt even if she wished Sango hadn’t been quite so honest. “Yes. I think so.”

“I liked the stories,” Sango said as he went to refill his glass. “Elves, Eagles, skin-changers… I didn’t like the goblins, though.”

“I liked the dragon,” Tiger Lily said, quietly and to herself.

“You weren’t allowed to listen to that part,” Opal said, making Tiger Lily start. She hadn’t expected anyone to be listening to her. “I remember Aunt Peony used to make you leave the room when he got to anything too frightening. ‘Not suitable for little lasses!’” She said this last bit in perfect imitation of Tiger Lily’s mother.

Tiger Lily wasn’t prepared to admit in front of Abelia and Rico that she had sat with her ear to the door while Mr Baggins continued his stories, so she shrugged and said nothing.

Sango went back to his seat on Lavender’s armrest, putting his hand on the back of the chair to steady himself.

“You ain’t going to fall on me, are you?” Lavender said, half-jokingly.

He snickered and took a long draw from his glass. “No fear.”

“Did you know him well?” Master Brownlock said, looking at Opal.

“I’m not sure anyone knew him very well,” Opal said thoughtfully, “and Father and Grandfather didn’t like to encourage the connection. But Uncle Aferbold liked him.”

“Mm.” There was a nasty smile at the corner of Rico’s mouth. “Not a great surprise, I suppose.”

Abelia hid her face in his shoulder as she started to giggle silently.

“The real question,” a lad who was sat on the floor said, “is whether or not you believe the stories are true.”

“Of course not,” Sango said, laughing. “Does anyone? Apart from children, I mean.”

Tiger Lily looked down at her feet as she curled her toes. Her father believed Mr Baggins’s stories with all his heart, and encouraged her and Bandobold to do the same. She had always told him she did, but wasn’t sure whether this was the truth or if she said it to please him.

“That’s not to say they have no value as stories,” Sango said. “In fact I’d say that his stories have more value if they’re just that. Any brute can wield a sword, but to weave a tale to enchant the soul…” He put a hand to his chest. “Art. That’s the thing.”

“Yes, very poetic,” Rico said with a roll of the eyes. “You’re sotted.”

Sango raised his hand dismissively. “Pleasantly tipsy, nothing more.” He quickly grabbed the back of the chair again to stop himself falling, and snorted with laughter.

“I saw him disappear, I think,” Abelia said with a thoughtful frown on her face. “At the Party. But I was so young… I used to think it was an odd dream, because it couldn’t have possibly happened like that.”

“We should change the subject. We’re excluding you,” Rico said innocently, turning to Lavender. “It’s very poor manners for us to be talking about the Party when you didn’t attend.”

“I went. I remember it well enough,” Lavender said. Up until this point she’d had a slightly lost look on her face, but now she brightened up a bit. “Our dad insisted.”

“I meant you wouldn’t have been part of the gross. Only a few select families were invited.”

The cautious smile disappeared from Lavender’s face. “No. We din’t go to that.”

As the conversation meandered on, Lavender made a quite exit to get some air. Sango was finding it increasingly difficult to keep his balance on the armrest and plumped himself into her vacant seat. In doing so he spilt wine over his waistcoat which left him in a fit of spluttering giggles.

Tiger Lily’s level of frustration only rose with every minute spent in that room. She still couldn’t speak. She was here, surrounded by her peers, and yet, still, she was on the outside.

“You’re very quiet,” Jesco said, quietly enough that only she could hear.

This was a comment Tiger Lily had received many times over the years, and she was yet to come up with an adequate response to it. “Sorry,” she said.

“You know, I don’t think the Tooks are nearly as odd as everyone says.”

“No?”

“Why do you suppose there are all those rumours about them?”

“Um…” Tiger Lily wasn’t sure what insight he wanted her to share. He presumably knew all the same rumours she did. “I suppose there are all the old stories. Disappearances. Odd customs.”

Jesco cocked his head to one side. “Customs?”

“Oh… You know… Meeting with outsiders. I’ve heard some Tooks dress a little oddly.” She started to pick at one of her nails.

“An affinity for the longbow?” Rico said.

Tiger Lily glanced sharply at him. She didn’t even know he’d been listening. Surprisingly, Jesco didn’t seem concerned as he sipped his wine.

“Oh, yes. Your people brought that with them didn’t they?”

Tiger Lily winced. “Yes…”

He nodded. “Honestly, I’m not sure what all the fuss is about. I think it’s rather sweet that your father let you join in sometimes.”

Tiger Lily’s heartbeat quickened again, but this time it wasn’t with anxiety. “I can get a hare through the eye at thirty paces,” she said, a great deal louder than she’d intended.

An awkward, twitchy silence descended on the room.

Jesco shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Gosh. How clever of you,” he said in a flat tone. Then his body language relaxed and he smiled a little. “I’ve never really seen how archery could be that difficult. You just aim and shoot, don’t you?”

This was worse. Tiger Lily gripped her skirt; no longer afraid and too incensed to stay silent. “It is _not_ —”

“Tiger Lily!”

She turned her head to see that Sango had risen from his seat. “Could you help me get some more wine, please?” he said in a soft, controlled voice.

Tiger Lily took two of the empty bottles, and followed him out of the room and along to the wine cellar. When Sango failed to speak, she decided to start the talk herself.

“Why wasn’t Rico surprised my father liked Mad Baggins?”

Sango didn’t reply.

“Was he implying that Father’s mad?”

They entered the wine cellar, where two rows of barrels stretched along opposite walls. Sango knelt by a tapped barrel and started to fill a bottle.

The embarrassment and frustrations Tiger Lily had experienced that evening were bubbling up into anger of a kind she rarely felt. To be shut out by Sango—when she had only attended in the first place to please him—was too much. “What’s wrong? Why won’t you talk?” she demanded.

“Pass me another bottle.”

Tiger Lily scowled, and did as he said. “Why do people call Father mad when he’s not?”

“His own wife thinks he’s eccentric, how do you think the rest of the world sees him?” Sango said wearily.

Tiger Lily froze where she stood. “What does that mean?”

He sighed irritably. “Nothing.”

The anger was rising up like a river, pressing up against the dam. “Tell me what you mean. How does the world see him? How do _you_ see him?”

He said nothing as he watched the deep red wine fill the bottle.

It dam burst. “Why would you say that? You’ve met him! You know he’s not mad!”

Still nothing.

“Why won’t you talk to me?” she shouted.

“Be quiet.”

It wasn’t the volume at which the words were said, but the hard, uncompromising tone that shocked her into silence. She hadn’t realised how loud she’d been. “Sorry?” she said in her usual tone. 

“Do you know how often I’ve had to explain to people that you’re not odd?” Sango said, setting the bottle on the ground with a thud. “Do you know how often I’ve lied? I thought you were all for finding new companions, but there you are spouting off about the strangeness of Tooks.”

She scowled. “It was your Master Brownlock who mentioned it.”

“That didn’t mean you had to go on about getting hares through the eye, like you’re proud of it. It’s embarrassing!” He brought one of the bottles to his lips and took a long draw.

Tiger Lily swallowed. “Rowley…” she said hoarsely.

“You needn’t bother coming back with me.” He grabbed the full bottles and stormed out. “Sometimes it’s like you don’t have a drop of shame in you.”

“That’s not true,” she called after him.

No reply came, and she left the cellar only when she was sure he had gone. She curled her arms around her bodice as she walked, disconnected from everything around her, and found herself stood outside without any real recollection of how she got there. Tiger Lily leaned her head back and closed her eyes. This was not the wild, visceral night found in the woods, with a longbow in her hand. It was fenced in. Tamed.

She had ruined it all. Again.

Tiger Lily took a deep breath, and shrieked through her gritted teeth.

“You all right, miss?”

She looked over her shoulder. Lavender was sat by the door, wearing a confused expression.

Tiger Lily let her hands relax and smoothed out her skirt. She could feel the blood rising in her cheeks. “Hello. Yes. Fine. Sorry, I didn’t see you.” She inhaled. “How are you?”

“Well enough.”

She looked around. There was no one else out here that she could see. “I can go, if you wanted to be alone.”

“You’re all right. I just needed a moment.”

“Oh.” Tiger Lily looked down at the sloping hills, feeling awkward.

“Sit down if you like, miss. The ground’s dry.”

Tiger Lily hesitated. Even with an invitation it seemed intrusive. She sat herself on the ground, keeping a reasonable distance from Lavender.

“You must hate me.”

Tiger Lily looked at Lavender sharply, and found the other Hobbit smiling sadly at her. “Why?”

The smile became amused. “For stealing your lad away.”

“You haven’t stolen anything.” Tiger Lily shook her head and picked at the grass. “I didn’t like that you were with another lad in the _Green Dragon_ , but that’s all.”

Lavender sighed. “Aye. I should’ve handled that better. I’ll know for next time.” And that was that. “You know everyone thinks you an’ Sango—”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t…?”

Tiger Lily rested her head against the wall and looked up at the sky. The stars flickered above. “Once, maybe. A long time ago. He was always so full of joy, and being with him was so… I don’t think have a word for it. He was everything. Perfect. Like the sun.”

“I wouldn’t call him perfect,” Lavender said.

“No. Me neither.”

Lavender nodded, and looked away.

Neither of them said anything for a time, and Tiger Lily found herself thinking about Rob. She wondered where he was at this moment. What he was doing. She still needed to decide what to do…

She was brought back to the here and now when Lavender cleared her throat.

“Do you mind if I ask… why do you all call him ‘Rowley’?”

Tiger Lily pursed her lips to mask her amusement. “I don’t mind. But he might, so I’m afraid you’ll have to ask him instead.”

“Why han’t he asked me to call him Rowley, though?”

“His sweethearts don’t, generally. Lorna did, but they were friends before, so… It’s never actually occurred to me before.” A sickly, guilty feeling settled in her stomach. “Um…” She drew her legs up and hugged her knees. “I’m sorry if you haven’t had a nice time.”

Lavender turned away from Tiger Lily and looked dead ahead, leaning her head listlessly against the wall. “You just have to tell yourself it’s their fault, not yours.”

Tiger Lily realised that Lavender had coloured her lips and cheeks, much more heavily than she had tried to colour her own. But with Lavender it seemed not to be an attempt to cover herself, or to make her seem anything other than what she was, but simply an extension of herself. Tiger Lily eased herself onto her knees and plucked at her skirt.

“But… but if everyone’s telling you you’re wrong, and they all know so much better than you…” She closed her eyes and swallowed. “How can you possibly know they’re the ones in the wrong?”

She found Lavender was giving her an odd look, and she realised what she had said.

“Oh! No! I didn’t mean _you._ I just meant people. Generally.”

Lavender tilted her head to one side. If she was offended she didn’t show it. “You’d drive yourself mad thinking like that.”

Tiger Lily let out a little sigh. “Yes. I suppose you would.” She sat on the grass properly again. “You must think me a silly little girl.”

“No.” Lavender rose, brushing down her skirt. “Getting a bit chilly for me. You coming in?”

“Not quite yet.”

Lavender nodded and slipped inside. Tiger Lily was too afraid to go back and face the others again, and she instead wondered down to the field directly beneath the house. She came to the single chestnut tree that grew there. What leaves remained were rustling, and those that didn’t carpeted the ground beneath. She sat under the tree and thought.

It wasn’t until she saw groups of guests walking down from the house—carrying lanterns to light their way—that she returned to the party.

She found her mother talking to Mrs Boffin in the hall with a sleepy-looking Bandobold in tow.

“It’s really been a lovely evening, Sara. There you are, dear.” Mrs Took looked over at Tiger Lily. “Did you have a nice time with… Why are there twigs in your petticoat?”

Tiger Lily glanced down at the hem of her skirt. She didn’t want to explain why she’d gone outside, and tried to think of an answer that was neither true nor a lie.

“They came from a tree.”

Mrs Took rolled her eyes. “I suppose it doesn’t matter, as we’re going home now. Do you need to say goodbye to Sango?”

“Sango has retired. He’s… a little under the weather,” Mrs Boffin said with a tired sigh. “But I suppose you could drop in on him. Briefly.” She put a hand on Tiger Lily’s shoulder as she passed. “We didn’t have a chance to finish that talk with regards to Miss Hobble,” she said in a hushed voice.

“I think Miss Hobble’s nice,” Tiger Lily said. “I like her.” She quickly stepped out of Mrs Boffin’s reach and made her way to Sango’s bedroom.

Mr Boffin’s angry voice reached her ears from the far end of the corridor. “You will not bring that harlot into our home again, do you understand me?”

“Don’t call her that.”

The door to the room was ajar. Tiger Lily stood by the doorpost, unseen.

“I was young once. I’ve known the allures of lasses like her, but they are not to be brought in front of company. That’s to say nothing of your own behaviour this evening.”

“I haven’t done anything!”

“Look at yourself! I don’t know what’s worse: that you’ve gotten yourself into this state, or that you don’t seem to care.”

“Stop it!”

“All I’m asking is that you start taking some responsibility. That’s not much, Sango.” The door opened without warning. Mr Boffin started, clutching at his chest before his expression darkened into a scowl. “Can’t I have privacy in my own house?”

“Sorry, sir,” Tiger Lily mumbled, pressing herself against the wall as he brushed past. When he was gone she tentatively looked past the door.

Sango was sat on the bed, cradling his head in his hands. He looked up, covering his mouth with his hands. When he caught sight of her his eyes widened. “Tills!”

He lurched to his feet. Tiger Lily’s arms stiffened at her sides as he pulled her into a hug. All traces of his usual smell had been eclipsed by stale wine. “You know I didn’t mean it… I didn’t mean to shout.”

“Mm.”

Tiger Lily flinched as he brushed his fingers against her cheek.

“Yes, all right.” She took his wrist and forced it away. “Come on. I think you need to go to sleep now.” She took him by the shoulders and guided him to the bed, catching him as he stumbled. He sat down heavily.

Tiger Lily unpinned the little gold oak leaf on his cravat, not trusting him to be able to remove it without hurting himself. He touched her frizzy locks that fell over her shoulder. “I like your hair,” he said, twining the curls around his fingers. She tugged them out of his grasp.

“Shall we try and make you more comfortable?” She untied the cravat from around his throat and undid the first few buttons of his shirt.

“I love you,” he said.

“I know,” Tiger Lily said wearily. She undid the buttons of his waistcoat and pulled it over his arms. She turned away from him as she folded it.

“I just… I wish you weren’t a Took,” he slurred.

She looked over her shoulder at him. “Me too, sometimes. But probably not as often as you’d like.”

“It would make so many things easier.”

“I suppose it would.” She put the folded waistcoat on the chair at his writing desk. “Mother will be waiting for me,” she said. For the first time in a long time all she wanted was to get away from him.

“You’re upset with me.”

She paused in the doorway and turned to look at him. His hands were lying limply in his lap and he was watching her with his large, innocent brown eyes. Completely hopeless. “I’m sorry I embarrassed you,” she said.

Sango’s brow creased as he tried to make sense of it. His lips were parted and slack.

Tiger Lily affected a smile before she turned away again, not looking back this time.

* * *

The party had already become a confused mess of embarrassing memories.

_Was it really me who had spoken to those people?_

She had purposely avoided seeing Sango that day by spending most of her time out of doors so she wouldn’t be in if he decided to call. She didn’t want to deal with him at the moment, and especially not when he was bound to have a sore head. Bringing him pies this time would imply that she was all right with what he’d said and done.

She had smiled as she saw Rob coming to meet her. There had been no anxiety; no fear that he wouldn’t come.

There were no eyes here, just her and him and the land.

They had paused for rest on the gnarled roots of an oak tree, so old and thick that they made a handy seat for a Hobbit. They were at the crest of a hill and had a fair view of the surrounding patchwork of brown and green fields, stitched together with fences and hedgerows.

“You all right, lass?”

She started out of her introspection. “Yes, fine thank you, and you?” she said without even thinking.

“I’m all right. I just wondered ‘cus you’ve said next to nothing.”

“I was only thinking. Sorry.”

He chuckled. “Reckon we could make a drinking game out of the number of apologies you make.”

She smiled ruefully. “I don’t think we should try that. I’m not a fan of drink.”

He laughed again, and she turned away to look over the hills. The breeze brushed her hair against her neck.

“I lied to you,” she said.

There was a brief pause.

“About what?” he said.

She turned to face him again. His brow was creased, but it wasn’t with anger or confusion. It was something else. He was squinting against the biting air.

“I do hunt. With a longbow,” she said. “Or did, until very recently.”

“…That all?”

“Yes.”

“Right.” He straightened his back and rested a hand on his knee. “I’ll be honest, lass. I’d already guessed that.”

She sighed. “I don’t think I’m very good at lying.”

“It ain’t a big lie.”

“It feels big. To me. Bigger than it probably should.”

She started to tell him about the party, and it all came tumbling out. The implied slight at her father, that the other tweens had hated her, how she had humiliated herself, her fight with Sango…

Rob listened patiently, and when she had finished he scratched his nose and said, “How’d you know they hated you?”

This took Tiger Lily by surprise. “What?”

“They say aught? Do aught?”

“No…?”

“Only I think it takes a lot for a person to hate another person, right? Not sure sitting in a chair’d do it.”

Tiger Lily’s mouth opened, but she couldn’t think of anything to say to this.

“An’ from what you was saying, most of the rest of it was Master Rico, an’ he’s…” His mouth twitched into a smile. “I can’t say what he is ‘cus you don’t like cursing. But he likes to pick on them that have trouble pushing back. You see what I mean?”

She nodded. “Yes. I think so. What do I do about Sango?”

Rob shrugged. “Leave it a few days, or don’t, or something else. Whatever you think’s best.”

There was a sudden rustling in the branches above as two birds started chirping at each other. “It sounds like they’re arguing,” Tiger Lily said. “I wonder what they have to fight over.”

“Money.”

She cast him an aside glance. “Is that right?”

“Aye. See him?” he pointed to one of the birds. Its beak was open wide as it twittered and it was flapping its wings incessantly. “He spent his wages on drink, and now the wife’s throwing him out of the nest ‘til next pay day.” He grinned at her—a sharp grin, full of good-natured cheek.

Tiger Lily nodded, and turned her smile to the ground. “Yes. I see now. But I don’t think I can blame her. She’s got the chicks to think of.”

“Of course. Can’t help feeling sorry for ‘im, though. Nothing worse than when your lass turns on you.”

There was a pause. Tiger Lily decided to use it to ask something she dearly wanted to know.

“If I said I could get a hare through the eye at thirty paces, what would you say?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Can you?”

“When I’m lucky.”

Rob frowned in thought and scratched his head. “Could you teach me?”

Tiger Lily smiled, and started to laugh. There was nothing negative in the way he spoke. Nothing shaming or patronising. He was impressed. Impressed with her. With all her faults.

“What?” Rob said, smiling confusedly.

“Nothing. Sorry.” She got her laughter under control and got her breath back. “I’ve never taught anyone before, so I can’t vouch for my skill, but I can certainly try. It would be a few years before you’d be catching your own game, though, and I would have to make you your own bow and arrows.”

He grimaced. “Maybe not then.”

She opened her mouth to insist, but hesitated. “It isn’t a great deal of trouble, but the offer remains, if you ever change your mind.” She looked to him, and for the first time became acutely aware that they were sat very close to each other. “I like you, Master Rob,” she said. “Very much.”

She could feel the warmth of his breath as he moved his face closer to hers. His lips were parted. He hesitated.

“Should I…?” he said in a low murmur.

Tiger lily’s heart was beating so hard she was sure Rob could hear. He was so tantalisingly close. “Um…”

And she nervously pressed her lips to his.

As the kiss lingered she started to panic as she wondered if she should pull away. But it was Rob who started to gently draw back. She opened her eyes as her heart started to resume its normal rhythm. She chewed her lip and looked away as her cheeks became hot. “Uh… Was that right?”

He frowned. “Yes?”

She absentmindedly tapped her heels against the earth and put her trembling hands in her lap. “So… does this mean we’re courting now?”

Rob blinked in surprise. “I thought we already was.”

“Oh.”


	18. Nettles by Night

No one seemed to know what was going on. The Boffins had moved out two days after the party, so this was the Delvers’ first day officially in the employ of Mr Sackville-Baggins. They and the other workers had all gathered around the farmhouse, where Mr Boffin would usually delegate the jobs for the day. No one had told them to do any differently today. Everyone was shuffling around nervously and trying to avoid looking at the windows. The curtains were all drawn; a reminder that the house was shut up, and the indoor servants gone to find new employment.

“I wonder what they’re going to do with the house,” Meg said, folding her arms and shivering.

“They could give it to us,” Maizey said.

Jonson snorted. “On Friday the first.”

Meg smiled at him. “We could make good use of the room.”

“Better than the Boffins did.”

“Will someone else come to live here?” Martin said from Rob’s elbow.

“Who’d want a house in the middle of a farm?” Jack said.

“A farmer,” Martin said.

Rob affectionately put one of his hands on Martin’s head as Jonson snickered.

“Good answer, lad.”

Jack cast Jonson a sidelong glance. “I meant besides a farmer. ‘Cus the new farmer’s not living on the farm, is he?”

“Not living in Bywater, never mind the farm.”

“Are we sure they’re not getting a tenant farmer in?” Maizey said.

“Not according to Dad,” Meg said.

“Dad don’t know everything.”

“He knows more’n us.”

“I’d get a tenant in,” Jack said. “Less work than trying to run a farm in a village you don’t live in.”

“Well, he’s rich,” Meg said, straining to see over the heads of the other workers. “They have ways. Old Granger’s here.”

Old Granger was the bailiff, and as much a part of the farm as the house itself. He had been there since the previous Mr Boffin’s time, and for far longer than any of the manual labourers. Mr Delver was already moving towards him. “Where’s Baggins?”

“You’ll hear in a minute. Don’t start on me, I’ve not got the time.” He stepped up on an old tree stump to address the assembled Hobbits. “Right. I know you’re all worried, but Mr Sackville-Baggins has said there’s to be no dismissals in the immediate. I can’t give no more reassurance than that, but I hope that’ll put some minds at rest for the time being.” He inhaled. “As you might’ve guessed, Mr Sackville-Baggins isn’t coming today.”

“Where is he?” Jack called.

Old Granger scowled at him. “That ain’t your concern, _Caften_ , an’ I’d appreciate if you didn’t interrupt.” He opened the notebook he was holding and looked over the pages. “The farmer has sent me his instructions, and I don’t want no trouble, and I’m not here to pass comment. I’m just the messenger.”

A soft murmuring rippled through the crowd. Meg looked down as Martin slipped one of his hands into hers. His face was turned towards her, wearing an expression that said, ‘I don’t understand.’ She said nothing, but gave his hand a gentle squeeze. It was better than admitting she didn’t understand either.

“We need the most able lads to stay up near the granary.” Granger inhaled deeply. “Mr Sackville-Baggins wants two more built, as quick as possible.”

There was silence.

“What _for_?” Mr Delver said. “The old one’s always served well.”

“I don’t know an’ it’s not my place to ask,” Granger said briskly.

“It’s ‘cus we don’t have a mill to send the wheat to,” Orsan Brandon said. “My wife couldn’t get bread two days last week. We worked bloody hard on that harvest an’ now it’s going to naught.”

There was an affirmative outcry from the gathered workers.

Granger shut the notebook with a snap. “You can complain to me all you like, but that don’t change anything. It’s very early days, and I don’t know how the new farmer will react if he thinks work ain’t getting done as he’d like. I do _not_ want any of you to lose your positions so close to winter, so I am urging you now to do your best to see his wishes fulfilled. Am I clear?”

There were no more complaints after that.

* * *

They were fighting again.

Clover had quickly learned that the best thing to do during these arguments was to find a job that would keep her out of the way until things calmed down, so she had decided to trim the wicks of the candles. The Grubbs only had four rooms with windows—two at the front and two at the back. This was more than most Hobbit-holes, but the number of other rooms meant they got through an inordinate number of candles. They weren’t cheap either. These were made of wax and lacked the vaguely meaty smell that was given out by the cheap tallow candles the Delvers bought. She sighed as she looked at the row of candles she had laid before her on the tea table. It was going to take much longer than she had originally thought.

There were worse jobs. Dusting the bookcases was tedious not just because there were so many, but because she had to drag a wooden step stool around with her to reach the top shelves.

“You’re meant to be caring for me,” Old Mrs Grubb said.

Clover glanced up at the gammer as she snipped the wick off the first candle. “Are you in need of anything, madam?”

“I need you to open the door so I can give them a piece of my mind.”

Clover looked back down at the candles. “You know I can’t.”

Old Mrs Grubb scowled. “Open the door.”

“No.”

“I am mistress of this smial, and I _order_ you to open the door.”

“Mistress Campanula said—”

“Are my words worth less than hers?” Old Mrs Grubb said, leaning forward in her wheelchair.

“Hers are worth nine shillings a week,” Clover said. She cut a wick that flicked away onto the rug. “So that’s ‘yes’ unless we can work out our own arrangements.”

There was a pause. Then cackling. “Bribery is it?”

“Couldn’t say, madam.”

“Don’t give me that.”

“What, madam?”

Old Mrs Grubb sighed and leaned back in her chair again. “Bloody chit.”

“Is there anything else I can do?” Clover said.

“I want someone to read to me, but you’re useless for that as well.”

Clover gave only a brief glance to Old Mrs Grubb as she said this. By this point she was used to the gammer’s sharp comments, but that one stung a little bit.

_I could read, if I knew how._

Mrs Grubb turned her beady eyes to Clover. “I suppose you could fetch me my tonic. It’s about that time.”

“It’s a little early,” Clover said, looking at the clock.

“Only by a few minutes. Go. Now. Or I’ll give you a kick up the backside.”

Clover silently wondered how Old Mrs Grubb would achieve this. “Very well, madam,” she said, moving to the door.

“And prepare me some tea.”

Clover looked back, and saw that the mistress was hunched over in her chair. There was a hungry, scheming glint in her eye.

Clover dropped a curtsey. “Very good, madam.” She stepped through to the main hallway, and closed the door firmly behind her.

“You little chit!” Old Mrs Grubb cried from the other side of the door.

Clover smiled to herself as she made her way to the kitchen. Petty quarrels with old ladies were hardly an achievement, but she would take any victories she could find. The others had stopped fighting by now. The door to Dalgo’s study was open a crack, which meant he didn’t want to be seen, but couldn’t close the door completely in case a client arrived. This in turn meant he was brooding. He seemed to do a lot of brooding.

She opened the door to the kitchen. Monno was stood in the middle of the room, Abelia sobbing in his arms.

“Oh, it’s you, Clover,” he said.

Clover wasn’t sure what the proper thing to do was, so she curtseyed and kept her head bowed. “Sorry. I came to get Mistress Victoria’s tonic.”

“Yes, of course.”

There was a knock at the front door.

“I’ll answer that, sir,” she said, making to go.

“No, I will. You need to tend to Grandmother. I need to get back to work now, Abbie.”

Abelia whimpered and nodded.

Clover stepped out of the way as Monno brushed past her. “Thank you,” he said.

Clover set about preparing the tea, lighting the stove and filling the kettle. She kept one eye on Abelia the whole time. She had expected the young mistress to leave at the same time as Monno, but instead she had sat herself at the table, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief.

“I hate Dalgo,” Abelia said, apropos of nothing.

Clover looked over her shoulder at Abelia as she got Old Mrs Grubb’s tonic out of the cupboard. She felt some kind of response was expected from her, but she wasn’t entirely sure what would be best. “Well… brothers…”

Abelia sniffed and wiped her nose with the handkerchief. “Do you have brothers?”

“Brothers are most of what I have.”

Abelia’s brow furrowed in confusion as she looked at Clover with watery eyes.

“Yes. I have brothers,” Clover said gently, spooning leaves into the teapot.

“Do they act like asses?”

“Oh, aye. It’s in their nature.”

Abelia laughed and sniffed again. “Do they give you trouble with your suitors?”

Clover hesitated before replying. None of her brothers had never been very protective in that area. Jonson and Jack’s attitude had always been, ‘any lad mad enough to want you is welcome to try his luck.’ Meg was a little different. Clover knew for a fact that the first time she’d brought Winden home Jonson had paid Rob to glare at him from across the room. And she didn’t fancy the chances of any lad wanting to court Myrtle when her time came.

The sensible answer would have been a simple ‘no’. But Abelia’s wide-eyed and tearstained face compelled her to give an answer with more substance. Clover grinned.

“They don’t dare,” she said.

Abelia laughed and sniffed. “I wish that were true for me.”

When the tea was brewed Clover placed a steaming cup in front of Abelia while she sorted out Old Mrs Grubb’s tonic.

“Thank you,” Abelia sniffed. “It’s nice to have another young lady to talk to. Did you know, Petunia was _forty-three_? I shan’t wait until I’m forty-three to get married.”

“No?” Clover said, and smiled to give the appearance of interest. “Does your Master Boffin know that?”

Abelia smiled smugly. “We haven’t talked about it. But I know we will get married one day, it doesn’t matter what Dalgo says. We’ll elope once we’re both of age.”

“You’ve got a little while to wait, then.”

Abelia groaned. “An absolute age. I asked Mother if we could get married before then, but she said only if she died.”

Clover finished setting up the tray. “Least that’ll give your other admirers a chance.”

She half-smiled. “I suppose so. I don’t really have many admirers. Father never liked them so Dalgo doesn’t liked them either.” She huffed. “I’d prefer just to marry Rico and have babies. It’s not fair!”

“I can’t speak against Mr Dalgo, miss. It’s not my place. I was going a bit far with the comment about the admirers.” She struggled to prop the door open with her elbow while carrying the tray.

“Here.” Abelia held the door open for her before following her down the corridor.

The attention had only been strange to begin with, but now it was becoming irritating. “Is there anything I can do for you, miss?” Clover said.

“No. I just…” Abelia wrung her fingers and looked at Clover with a worried expression.

_You’re lonely, aren’t you?_ Clover thought. _Come on, then…_

She didn’t ask again as Abelia went back to the parlour with her and helped her with the door.

“Come to join us, have you, missy?” Old Mrs Grubb said, eyeing Abelia as she entered the room.

“What are you doing with the candles?” Abelia said, looking down at the rows on the tea table.

“Trimming the wicks,” Clover said absently, setting the tray down. “What would you like first, madam?”

“Tonic then tea,” Old Mrs Grubb said. “Don’t pour it out. I’m not such an invalid that I can’t do it myself.”

“What do you need to cut the wicks for?” Abelia said.

Clover cast Abelia a glance as she gave the bottle and spoon to Mrs Grubb. Surely she knew?

“Long wicks burn down the candles quicker. An’ they get sooty.”

“I see.”

Abelia sat down on the rug while Clover oversaw Old Mrs Grubb taking her tonic and settled her with a cup of tea.

“Can I help you?” Abelia said, arranging her frilly skirts around her.

Clover looked at Old Mrs Grubb, who was drinking her tea and staring listlessly across the room. She either hadn’t heard Abelia, or didn’t care.

The family wouldn’t be happy if she let Abelia help her. On the other hand, Clover wasn’t really in a position to deny the young mistress something she wanted.

“If you wish, miss. And if it pleases you, madam,” she said, looking at Old Mrs Grubb.

The old lady scoffed. “Why should I care if she trims a few wicks?”

The three ladies sat together in peaceable silence for a while. The only disturbance happened when Clover had to rescue the teacup as Old Mrs Grubb drifted off. Abelia had giggled quietly for a while before she settled down again and the quiet returned; clear as water.

Eventually the door opened. Dalgo stood in the entrance, looming over the collected Hobbitesses. His lips moved silently as he looked over the scene.

“What exactly is going on?”

“I’m helping Clover,” Abelia said simply.

“That’s not your place. What would Father think of you lowering yourself like this?”

“I don’t care.”

Dalgo flushed. “I had come here to apologise, but—”

“I don’t care for your apologies,” Abelia said, getting to her feet and brushing down her frilly skirt. “Thank you for spending the afternoon with me, Clover. It’s been very pleasant.”

Clover watched Dalgo from the corner of her eye and decided that replying would be against her best interests.

“Don’t mock me,” he said.

“I think I’ll take a stroll,” Abelia said as she ducked out of the room.

“Mother will know of this,” he called after her.

“Mmm? What?” Old Mrs Grubb lifted her head and blinked sleepily. “What’s all this noise?”

Dalgo sighed and rubbed his eyelids. “Nothing, Grandmother, go back to sleep.”

“There’s a client out here for you,” Abelia called from the outside.

“Thank you.” Dalgo turned his narrowed eyes to Clover. “Don’t allow her to aid you again. That’s an order.”

They locked eyes. Clover snipped the wick off the final candle. “No, sir.”

The stern expression flickered into confusion for a moment. “I trust that means you shan’t make a repeat of this.”

“No, sir.”

Clover gazed at him, unblinking and expressionless.

_I’m not going to lose to you. I can keep this going for as long as I want._

Eventually Dalgo turned away. Old Mrs Grubb frowned at Clover. “What was all that about, then?”

Clover shook her head as she collected the candles. “No idea.”

* * *

“Then the lad remembered about the pebble in his pocket, and he threw it as hard as he could. It hit the troll right atween its eyes and it fell to ground with a mighty crash.”

This was one of those evenings Meg liked. The well-worn story was underscored by the rhythmic clicking of Mrs Delver’s knitting needles. Martin was leaning against Mr Delver as he told the story, half-asleep while one of his father’s hands gently pulled back a lock of his hair before letting it fall again. The twins were sat on the other settee, with Jack and Rob sat on the floor in front of them. Rob looked almost as enthused as the children; Jack less so.

It was a shame she wouldn’t be able to stay.

“You ready soon, Mum?” Meg said.

“Aye. Just give me a moment.” Mrs Delver finished the row, and snipped off the end of the wool. “There.”

She wrapped the newly-finished scarf around Meg’s neck as she passed her into the corridor.

“Keep you nice and warm. I’ll get the baskets,” Mrs Delver said as she disappeared into the kitchen.

Meg was tying her cloak when the knock at the door came.

“Who could that be at this time?” Mrs Delver said.

“I’ll get it,” Meg said. Her lips parted when she opened the door and found Nickon Hobble stood on the front step. “Nick?”

“Meg.” He tugged at his cap.

“You here to see Jack or…” She didn’t want to risk asking if he was there to see her.

He shook his head. “Not today. Your mum there?”

“In the kitchen. You want to come in?” she said, standing aside to let him pass. “Is everything all right with yours?”

“Aye. Just need her expertise.”

“I thought that sounded like you, Nicky,” Mrs Delver said as she came out of the kitchen, an empty basket in each hand. “What can we do for you?”

“Mrs Budd’s birth pangs’ve started, and Mum and Rose are out tending to Mrs Skinner. I was wondering if you could go?” He gritted his teeth when he finished, obviously knowing this suggestion would not be welcome.

“You been to the pellar?”

“She’s not at home. I got Widow Stabler to go, but she’d like a hand.”

Mrs Delver sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“I dropped in at the Skinners’, and Rose said it’d be a few hours yet, but Mum knows she’s needed at the Budds’ tonight,” Nick said. “I told Mr Budd I’d find someone. I’m sure he’d be comforted by having someone as capable as you tending his wife.”

“Yes, all right, I’m going,” she said, handing the baskets to Meg. “No need for flattery, I know it needs doing.”

“Just speaking the truth, mistress.”

“Away with you.”

“I’ll wait up,” Mr Delver said from the other room.

“See you do. An’ make sure the kettle’s on the fire.”

“Yes, madam!”

“You want me to stay in, Mum?” Meg said.

Mrs Delver shook her head as she tied her cloak. “No, lass. We need them nettles.” She put her head around the parlour door. “Could you go with your sister, Jack?”

“Can’t Rob go?”

“I asked you. You’re older.”

Nickon cast Jack an aside glance as he walked stiffly into the hallway. When Mrs Delver was gone he said, “Nettles?”

Meg looked down at the baskets. “We was going out to pick nettles for soup. It’s not ‘cus we’re poor,” she added quickly. “It’s ‘cus bread’s been scarce of late.”

“I know,” Nickon said quietly. He looked at Jack as he tied his own cloak. After a moment he returned his attention to Meg. “You want some company?”

She smiled. “That’d be nice. If you can spare the time.”

“I’ve always got time for pretty lasses,” he said with a grin.

“Ugh.” Jack wrinkled his nose in disgust. “I’m staying here if you’re going to talk like that.”

Meg shrugged in a way she hoped looked unconcerned. “Well, you don’t really need to come along now that Nick’s coming with me.”

“Wouldn’t be proper for us to go by ourselves,” Nick said. “People’ll talk.”

Jack rolled his eyes as he opened the door. “Bloody _proper_. No one cares about any of that. ‘Spescially not you.”

“Who says I don’t?” Nick said, following him out. “I’m very proper.” 

Meg followed them forlornly. When Nick had made the offer to go with her, she had hoped it would give them an opportunity to be alone together. It wasn’t as though anyone would have minded. No one cared if a lad and lass went off alone together, even if it wasn’t technically proper. Her dad had never been strict about that sort of thing. And she was of age, for pity’s sake. She followed Nick and Jack down the lane and did her best to ignore the voice in her head that was telling her something was wrong.

* * *

Clover slipped silently through the crowd in the _Green Dragon,_ unnoticed. Her stature (though irked her at times) gave her a degree of anonymity. She followed the voices she was listening for and was drawn to the table being presided over by Farmer Cotton. The gaffers were all bent low over the table, talking urgently.

“The loaves’re half the size they should be.”

“But the harvest was good.”

“As was the leaf harvest.”

Clover got an empty chair, but everyone was sitting too closely together for her to pull it up to the table. “Could I sit in, please?” she said.

“What do you expect when they’re taking the mill apart?” Mr Warren said, not acknowledging Clover’s presence. “Can’t get flour without a mill.”

“What happens if they don’t build a new one in its place?”

“I found something out,” Clover said.

“They are building a new one,” Mr Hobble said.

“They’re building something. Too early to tell if it’s a mill.”

Clover reached between the shoulders of two gaffers and rapped smartly on the table, bringing their conversation to a halt. “Can I sit in, please?”

The gaffers shuffled their chairs around, giving Clover enough room to pull her chair in. “Someone’s been buying up leaf plantations in Longbottom,” she said.

Farmer Cotton tapped on the table top with a finger. “Lotho S-B by any chance?”

Clover opened her mouth to reply, but was too surprised to speak.

“Word is he bought Sandyman’s mill, and it’s on his orders it’s been taken apart,” Farmer Cotton explained. “And Tavenner’s told me he bought the _Dragon_ a few months back.”

“He’s my landlord,” Farmer Westcott said, frowning into his tankard. “He’s been asking me to pay with crops for the last couple of years.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I din’t think much of it at the time, but now I’m afeared of what’ll come of it.”

“I don’t like it,” Mr Warren said. “No one should have that much land.”

“How’s he going to manage it all?” Clover said. “Keep track of all the goings on…”

“He won’t. It’ll all go to ruin,” he growled.

“Winter’s just around the corner,” Mr Hobble said, staring into space. “We haven’t had leaf for weeks. If he’s the cause of that and now the bread’s getting short…”

Farmer Cotton took in a deep breath. “It seems to me whatever path we go down, Mr Sackville-Baggins is at the end of it.”

“Right.” Mr Warren finished his beer and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I’m going up to Hobbiton tomorrow to give ‘im my piece. Who’s to join me?”

Farmer Westcott squirmed. “I can’t. I’ve got Ripon an’ Chastity to think of.”

“It’s long term gains, Foren. What’ll you have to leave your Ripon if Baggins sends the land to ruin?”

Westcott didn’t meek Warren’s eyes as he squirmed. “I’d rather we had a roof over us this winter.”

Mr Warren glared at him before returning his attention to the others. “Any of you?”

“I can’t go all that way. Back’s been playing up on me,” Mr Hobble said.

“I’ll think on it,” Farmer Cotton said. “Not sure yet if facing him head-on is the wisest thing.”

Mr Warren scowled and snatched his hat up from the table. “Bloody yellow sods.”

“Nice to see you too, Eldon,” Farmer Cotton said.

“We can’t be without bread,” Warren said. “I’m not going to take it silently.”

Clover followed him as he stormed away from the table. “Mr Warren! Wait!”

He stopped and turned on her. “What?”

“You din’t say when you wanted to go up tomorrow.”

He passed his hand over his eyes. “Your dad know you’re here?”

Clover scowled. “What’s that to the point?”

Mr Warren sighed, pulled his cap on and turned away. “Go home, lass.”

Clover stayed frozen to the ground as he left. She could no longer hear the bustle of the room around her. She was only returned to her senses when a plump-faced lad bumped into her. She didn’t bother listening to his apologies and instead left the inn, slamming the door behind her.

* * *

Meg’s hand brushed against the side of a leaf as she reached for another stem.

“Bloody…” She sucked her fingers as the burning sensation spread across her hand.

“That don’t work,” Jack called.

Meg rolled her eyes. “There aren’t no dock leaves about.”

“These won’t make good soup anyway,” Jack said as he carefully plucked another leaf. “Too late in the year.”

Nick snickered and sat back on his haunches. “Aye. Very inconsiderate of the baker to run short so late in the season.” He gave Jack’s shoulder a playful shove, knocking him over.

“By the Holy Ones, Nick! Right by the nettles!”

He laughed and held a hand out. “I wouldn’t’ve let you fall.”

Jack batted the hand away, not very enthusiastically. “Get away.”

Meg smiled as Jack sat up. The light was failing, but they could still see well enough to be out a little longer. The three of them were on the Common, gathered around a large clump of nettles in the long grass. There was no one else out there tonight, save the sound of the odd cart in the distance.

“You’re not hurt, are you, little’un?” she said.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Show some bloody respect, or I will knock you into the nettles,” Nickon said.

“I’d prefer if you didn’t…” Meg said.

“Very kind. He don’t’ deserve it,” he said, smiling and taking her hand.

“I’m a lass,” she said. “I’m weak.”

“I won’t hear of that.”

“Sweet Elbereth…” Jack groaned, covering his face with a hand.

Meg flushed and quickly drew her hand away from Nick’s. “Don’t swear,” she mumbled.

Nickon licked his top lip and looked over at Jack. “I think I see some silverweed over there. Why don’t you see if you can dig up the roots?”

“Gladly,” Jack said.

When he had gone Nickon pursed his lips and glanced towards a gorse bush that was growing nearby. Little yellow flowers were sprinkled through the dark green leaves. “You know… they say it’s kissing season when gorse is in bloom.”

Meg smiled. “That’s funny, ‘cus I don’t reckon I’ve ever known gorse be out of bloom.”

“Ah.”

“Got a lot of lasses with that one, have you?”

He plucked a daisy and handed it to her. “A couple. Them that’s not so clever as you.”

Meg smiled sadly and accepted the daisy. “If you’re looking for a clever lass you shouldn’t choose me.”

There was a kiss; soft, brief and chaste. Meg opened her eyes as he drew back. She had hoped it would linger more. Nickon grinned at her before grabbing one of baskets and rising to his feet. “There are some more nettles off yonder.”

Meg followed him, bewildered. He was walking a little way ahead of her, not looking back and making cheerful talk. It was like nothing had happened.

* * *

Something bad was happening; something bigger than her own understanding.

It was coming for her and there wasn’t anything that she could do to stop it. In truth, she wasn’t sure Mr Warren had the power to change anything, even if he did manage to find a gaggle of sturdy lads to join him in Hobbiton.

If she and the gaffers were right, then the only one able to actually do anything was Lotho Sackville-Baggins, and what reason did he have to change anything? He must be aware of the shortages, and if it’s putting gold in his pocket what was it to him if people he didn’t know were going without bread?

But there was still a chance he could be persuaded, and being able to go with Warren would have given her some comfort. At least she would have done _something_ , even if it might not have worked in the end. She would have had some agency in her own life. It wasn’t fair.

Clover was trembling by the time she reached the back door to the Grubb’s hole. It wasn’t fair. Nothing had ever been fair. She had been born small and female, the fourth child of too many with neither money nor heritage to recommend her, and this had determined everything. Her destiny had always been to live as a herd animal, with every aspect of her life in the hands of others and no voice to cry out. She had tried to set her own path, but it always came down to her being without power, serving those with it.

Why her?

No candles had been left burning in the main passage, and only slivers of light came from under the doors on either side. Clover tried to pass through as quickly as possible, not wanting to see any of the family in her currant state. On her way to her quarters she passed shelf after heaving shelf of books.

Books…

The gentry seemed to set so much stock by books. The two Mr Grubbs spent all day recording information in books and then would read for pleasure in the evenings. Young Mrs Grubb would do the accounts, read to her mother-in-law and write to her sisters. Dalgo pored over his late father’s diaries, drinking in the words of a Hobbit long dead.

They had a voice; an immortal one. It wasn’t _fair_.

Clover grabbed one of the books and tore it from the shelf. She urgently flicked through page after page, thinking that maybe if she just tried hard enough she could understand.

But there was nothing.

How could they derive speech, meaning and poetry from _this_? It was nothing more than a few worthless lines.

“You can read?”

Clover started and spun around. Abelia was stood in the doorway to the kitchen, watching with innocent interest.

Clover stuffed the book back onto the shelf as her heart pounded. “No, miss. Sorry, miss. I just…” She closed her eyes. It was too foolish to try and explain. “I’m sorry I touched the books, miss. It won’t happen again.”

She gave a brief, embarrassed curtsey and turned away to go to her bedroom.

“I could teach you.”

Clover froze. She didn’t dare trust that she’d heard correctly. She looked hesitantly over her shoulder.

“I could teach you how to read,” Abelia said. “If you’d like me to.”

Clover sighed. She wasn’t sure why Abelia had decided to take a liking to her, but she was sure it wasn’t going to do her any good. “That’s very kind, miss. But I don’t think your family would like that.”

“I want to,” Abelia said, stepping forward earnestly. “I know I’m the least important member of the family but that doesn’t make what I want completely irrelevant, does it?”

Clover sighed again. “No…” She frowned as suspicion crept in. “You’d honestly teach me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “I want to help you. You’re my friend, aren’t you?”

Clover was taken aback by this. Her prickly manner didn’t endear her to people easily, and she didn’t have many who she considered close friends. She didn’t mind this (one sturdy companion was better than a dozen foolish ones) but the idea of someone wanting to do something so big without expecting anything back was strange.

Perhaps things could be fair sometimes.

* * *

Nickon had left Meg and Jack somewhere along Bywater Road, and the Delvers returned to East Warren Lane alone.

“These’ll keep us going for a while,” Meg said, smiling and holding up one of the baskets. She was still feeling odd from her interactions with Nick but didn’t want Jack to know this.

Jack only grunted in response and rejected all Meg’s other attempts to start a conversation. In the end she gave up, and the remainder of the walk home was taken in silence.

Meg was surprised when she found their mother was already home, sat at the kitchen table with a cup of tea and chatting to their father.

“Did Mrs Hobble arrive, Mum?” she said as she set the basket of nettles on the table. “How was Mrs Budd when you left her?”

“She’s all right. Well, as all right as you can be after a birthing. I was only there a half hour and out he popped.”

“You make it sound easy,” Mr Delver said, sipping his tea.

“Well, he was her fifth. It wasn’t going to be an all-nighter. Sweet little thing, he was.” She grinned. “We could have another.”

“No,” he said firmly.

“You got a lot,” Mrs Delver said, tilting one of the baskets to peer inside. “Thank’ee, Meg. And Jack.”

Jack set his baskets on the table and slunk out of the room without a word.

“What’s up with him?” Mr Delver said, looking at Meg.

“Don’t know, Dad,” Meg said. “I’ll go an’ talk to him…”

“Don’t. If he’s being grumpy he needs to get out of it himself.”

Meg nodded vaguely and turned to her mother. “Is there aught you want me to do?”

“You’ve done enough, lass. Sit down, have some tea.”

Meg sat down, but couldn’t stop scratching her nails against her cup. Nick’s behaviour hadn’t changed at all after the kiss. No attempts to get her alone or suggestions that they could see each other again. She kept going over the kiss and the words they’d exchanged in increasingly frantic circles. But still she couldn’t make sense of it. What exactly did he want?

“Mum?”

Martin was stood in the doorway, wearing a too-large nightshirt and rubbing his eyes sleepily. “I can’t sleep. Do you know where my blanket is?”

Meg had risen out of her seat before either of their parents had a chance to reply. “I’ll help you find it, Marty.”

“Meg—” Mrs Delver began.

“It’s fine, Mum,” she said quickly, ushering Martin out of the room. “I like to make myself useful.”


	19. The Larks' Song

_To My Dear Ones,_

_I was so glad to receive a letter from each of you! I’m afraid you shall have to settle for this one alone, as I lack the time to write to each of you individually._

_Thank you for wishing me a happy birthday, and I hope that the dried daisies I have sent will be well received. I know they are meagre and more than a little late but I hope you can forgive me, considering the circumstances. I will give you grander presents at Yule to make up for it. I have recovered from my cold and am feeling much better, though I don’t expect it shall be long until the next one. Father always said I had a talent for picking up coughs._

_There have been some changes to the search parties. Young Hildiwin was not getting along well under his father’s command, and Ebbold offered to take his place. I feel sorry for the lad, being stuck with us old fogeys, but he seems to have settled well._

_We have still found no sign of the missing Hobbits._

_Cousin Theodand and his party have gone to Bree-land to see if there’s any news, while a contingency of Brandybucks are searching the downs. I am not sure what will happen if there is nothing is found._

_Peony: My bed is too wide and cold without you. I am glad to hear you’re managing; I knew you would. As of yet, there has been no mention of us returning home, but I will send word to you as soon as there is. Please thank Hortenbold for his kinship gift. Is there any sign of a betrothal for Opal yet?_

_Tiger Lily: I was sorry to hear that your young gentlehobbit is leaving Bywater. I hope you are not too grieved. There are a handful of other Took ladies who came here from the Smials, besides Ivy and Trefoil. Two of Frondebold’s unmarried daughters are here, as are Adelard’s middle daughter, the Thain’s youngest lass and Hantmar’s youngest, though I’m not sure why you wanted to know._

_Bandobold: I am sorry you’re finding your lessons dull. I did too (my tutor loathed me, but then I was a very poor student). I have seen no Mewlips yet, though I confess I’m not sure what they look like. If I come across any I will be sure to inform you, provided I am not eaten up. I have enclosed a handful of stories concerning Mewlips which I have heard since coming here. These are my birthday gift to you, in lieu of the new bow I promised._

_Keep your hearts light. I await your reply._

_Yours,_

_Father_

* * *

Tiger Lily creased her brow as she hacked the axe into the stave again and again, each blow landing with a satisfying _thunk_. She had tied a scarf around her mouth to keep the dust out. At the moment, the thing of most concern was a knot in the wood that was making the stave difficult to shape. She considered starting on a new piece of wood, but dismissed the idea. Bandobold was going through a growth spurt, so he probably wouldn’t be using this bow for very long, and as she’d already cut the length down to size it wouldn’t do anyone else any good. Oh well…

The door to the woodworking shed opened, and Tiger Lily found herself blinking up at the light that came pouring in. Sango was there with a bunch of flowers and a displeased expression.

“Your mother said I’d find you here.” His eyes lingered on the axe. “Should I be concerned?”

Tiger Lily brought the axe down onto the stout log she had been resting the stave on, leaving it stuck in the wood. She tugged the scarf away from her mouth. “No more than usual.” She turned to lean the stave against the wall.

“You said you were finished with all this,” Sango said pleadingly. “Tills, you promised.”

“I am. It’s for Bandobold, not me.”

“I’m sure your uncle would have—”

“How are you finding Overhill?” she said, walking past him into the outside.

“It’s odd waking up without the smell of manure.” He grinned. “I suppose I could muck out your stables if I start to miss it too much.”

“Yes.” Tiger Lily glanced at the flowers in his hand as she beat the wood dust out of her skirt. “What are those?”

“Asters, I think. Or azaleas. Something beginning with ‘A’.” He held them out to her. “They’re to say sorry.”

She took them hesitantly. “Thank you.” She fixed her eyes on him meaningfully. “Can you remember what you’re apologising for?”

He flushed a little. “I remember we fought. And I knew I must have said something to upset you because you didn’t come to see us off.”

“I might have been busy.”

He smiled uncertainly. “You always come to see me if I’m going away somewhere.”

She frowned into the flowers as she started to walk towards the gate. Was she really that predictable? “I’m just a bit upset at some of the things you said.”

“I’ve said I’m sorry.”

She shut the gate forcefully. “I know.”

“You’re being short with me.”

“No, I’m not.”

“What did I say?”

She winced at the recollections. “I’d rather not go over it.”

“I’ve said I’m sorry, and I am,” he said, falling into step beside her. “What else would you have me do?”

“Nothing.”

“You can’t resent me for things I said when I was drunk. I didn’t mean any of it.”

By this time they had reached the front of the smial. Tiger Lily closed her eyes as she sighed. He had said at the time that he didn’t mean it, and he was trying to make up for it now…

“You’re right. I’m being unreasonable.” She took his hand and started to lead him inside. “What do you want to do? We could stay in and read, but the weather’s fine enough to go walking, and I think I’d like to walk. I’ll put the flowers in water before we go. Bandobold should be finished with his lessons by now, so he could accompany us.”

“We’ll walk, if that’s what you want.”

“Good.” She smiled at him. “I am glad to see you.”

* * *

“No, because sometimes it’s an ‘uh’ sound and sometimes it’s an ‘ooh’ sound.”

“Why? How’d you know which is which?”

“Well… usually it’s an ‘ooh’ sound when it’s at the end of a word, which isn’t often. Or if it’s before an ‘E’.”

Clover frowned down at the page in front of her. There were so many rules with writing that she wasn’t sure how anyone managed to keep track of them all. For that matter, she wasn’t sure who had made the rules up in the first place, or for what purpose. Had they purposely made it as complicated as possible to keep the likes of her from learning? Very possibly.

Her first attempt at writing her own name hadn’t gone well. Abelia had laughed when she had first seen ‘Klowvu Delvu’.

“So what is it instead of a ‘U’?” Clover said.

“‘E-R’. It’s the same for your family name.” Abelia marked out the letters on the paper as she spoke.

Old Mrs Grubb had retired an hour or two ago, Monno had gone out somewhere (as he usually did in the afternoons) and the other Grubbs were elsewhere in the smial. The only sound was the gentle crackling of the fire. A rare moment of calm.

Technically Clover was meant to be out as well. She had told her family she would visit them today, but this was more important. Her family would wait for her. There was no guaranteeing Abelia would do the same.

Clover watched the light on the glistening ink as it dried on the page. “That’s the end, then?”

“Yes.”

She had thought that seeing her given name written out properly would feel somehow special, but it was just more lines on the page. Now she could name the lines, and knew how they were pronounced individually (sometimes). “Can I try?”

“Mm-hm.”

Clover took the quill and dipped it in the inkwell, dripping a trail of ink over the paper. Clover muttered a curse and reached for the blotting paper.

“I spill ink all the time,” Abelia said. “It used to irritate Father so.”

Clover watched Abelia from the corner of her eye. The deceased Mr Grubb seemed to haunt the smial in obscure references and words shouted in anger. But for someone who had been such an integral piece of the household, Clover knew almost nothing about him. It was surreal.

“Dads can be like that. Mine’s an old goat at the best of times.”

“Mm…”

She removed the blotting paper and started to carefully copy out the letters Abelia had written at the top of the page. The quill still felt alien in her hand. The smooth, intricate movements that Abelia seemed to find so easy were almost impossible for her. Her script was clunky and childish. Clover wasn’t used to struggling like this. She finished off the final ‘r’ with meticulous attention to detail. “Is that right?”

“Yes.”

Clover re-dipped the quill and wrote it out a second time. Looking over at Abelia when she was finished, she found her young teacher looking more melancholy than she had ever seen her before. This wasn’t the raw, angry hurt she wore after an argument with Dalgo. It was something deeper and emptier. Something partially healed—on the surface, at least. Clover smiled gently at her. “How do your write your name, miss?”

Abelia smiled back as she took the quill and easily wrote it out. Clover looked at it, trying to make sense of the syllables. “There’s only one ‘E’.”

Abelia raised an eyebrow. “How many did you think there would be?”

“Four-ish?”

The door to the parlour opened and Dalgo strode in, searching through the bookcases without even a glance at the lasses. “Abelia, have you seen my copy of _Family Histories in Bree-land_?”

“No. Why would I bother with any of that dull stuff?”

He spun around. “I’ll have you know—” The indignant scowl on his face gave way to blank confusion when he saw Abelia and Clover sitting together at the writing desk. “What are you doing?”

“I’m teaching Clover to read.”

“Why?”

Abelia huffed and looked back down at the paper. “It’s called being nice, Dalgo, I don’t know if you’re familiar.” She handed the quill back to Clover. “There. Would you like to try and copy it out?”

Clover took the quill, but couldn’t bring it to the paper, torn between which employer to heed. After what felt like a very long time Dalgo cleared his throat. “Leave us, Abelia. I need to have a word with Clover.”

Abelia scowled at him. “No.”

“I am master of this smial,” Dalgo said, raising his voice, “and I am ordering you to leave us.”

Abelia closed her eyes in frustration and stood from her chair, the legs scraping harshly against the floor tiles. Her skirts swished as she turned around to leave. She paused as she passed Dalgo.

“I hate you!” she cried as she slammed the door behind her.

Dalgo said nothing, but deliberately turned his head towards Clover. “I know what you’re doing.”

Clover watched him intently, and tilted her head to one side. “What I’m doing, sir?”

“Will you stop it?” he said as he started to pace back and forth. “You’re always going about with that excruciating look on your face, pretending you don’t having anything going on in your head.”

“I’m only a servant, sir. There’s nothing in my head of value. I’m sure you know that,” she said, keeping her voice soft and steady.

“Will you _stop_?” He grasped the back of an armchair to steady himself. “I’ve seen you smirking to yourself when you think no one’s looking. You’ve weaselled your way into this smial and now you’re lording it over us, taking delight in our absurdity.”

_He really is mad,_ she thought.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

“I told you to stop it!” He hesitated, breathing heavily. “Abelia is young, and too frivolous to think about anything in great depth. She doesn’t understand that this is not proper. You do know, regardless of what you say.”

Clover started to trace abstract shapes on the desk with her fingertips, all the time not taking her eyes away from Dalgo’s. “Mistress Campanula has dismissed me for the evening, sir. I can use my time as I please.”

“That does not give you leave to cultivate a relationship with my sister, nor does it give you leave to use our ink and paper,” he said, gesturing to the desk. He seemed to make up his mind about something and started to take long, quick steps towards Clover. “Give them to me.”

“ _No_.” Clover slammed her hand down over the paper and rose to her feet. Dalgo stood over her. The dancing firelight reflected off the lenses of his spectacles and obscured his eyes. Clover gazed up at him, unmoved. “I bought them myself, sir, with my own earnings. You’ve got no right to take them from me. Miss Abelia might be young, but she’s old enough to choose her own companions. You cannot tell me how I can or can’t spend my own time.” She looked at him steadily. “I am not afraid of you.”

For the longest time neither of them moved or looked away. The only noise was the crackling in the fireplace. Dalgo eventually turned away, pinching the bridge of his nose and letting out a weary sigh. “Tell me what you’re thinking,” he said.

Clover folder hands neatly, as she usually did when serving the family. “Will you dismiss me if I answer in truth?”

He leaned against the mantelpiece, keeping his head bowed and eyes cast down. “No.”

“How can I know you’ll keep your word?”

He didn’t reply, but his posture sagged further.

It was time to take pity. “I’m wondering why you’ve taken such a dislike to me, if it’s anything to do with my… did you call it my riddle?”

He nodded, still not looking at her. “Yes…”

“Is it to do with that?”

“I don’t know.”

She looked down at her hands, still slightly bewildered that this conversation was happening at all. “Now I’m wondering why it’s bothered you so much.”

“What do you think?”

“I’m not sure.”

“But if you were to guess?”

Clover drew in a breath. “It might be ‘cus you hate to be denied. You’re denied so little you don’t know how to take it. It might be ‘cus you want to know what I saw in you to suggest we were alike, ‘cus you want to know how others look at you.” She looked down at her feet. “Or it might be ‘cus you can’t stand the thought that you’d have anything in common with someone as lowly as me.”

“Which do you think is more likely?”

“A mix, mayhap.”

Dalgo turned his face towards her. His eyes flickered over her, head to toe. “I don’t know how to understand you,” he said.

“Why’s that, sir?”

His only response was to shake his head.

Clover turned away and started to gather up the paper on the desk.

“Tell me,” Dalgo said.

She looked over her shoulder at him. His eyes were empty and he seemed to have shrunk in stature. “Tell you what, sir?”

“Tell me why we’re the same.” He drew in a breath. “Please.”

Clover held the paper close to her chest and she turned to face him. _Maybe he isn’t horrified that we’re alike. Maybe he wants it to be true_.

She leaned against the desk as she spoke. “We act and speak in the way we do because we can. No one else can think like us and that makes us proud. It makes us forget that we’re just fools too.”

Dalgo slowly moved away from the fireplace and lowered himself into an armchair, covering his face with his hands. “I’m wretched.”

_At least he knows it…_

“I’m sure I couldn’t say.” She curtseyed. “I’m taking my leave now, Mr Grubb.”

She picked up the ink pot and took noiseless steps towards the door.

“What would you do if I told you to stay?”

She hesitated as she opened the door and looked back at Dalgo. He had raised his head from his hands, which now lay limply in his lap. His expression was one of bleak hopelessness. “I’m sorry, sir?”

“If I ordered you to stay, would you obey me?”

Clover smiled faintly. “Of course, sir. Who am I to defy you?” She nodded at him. “Good evening, Mr Grubb,” she said, and closed the door between them.

* * *

She was flying. Her feet barely touched the ground as the air whipped past. The field ahead of her was golden from the last of the day’s autumn sun.

“Hurry up, we can’t let him beat us,” Sango called over his shoulder to her.

Tiger Lily grinned, but didn’t have the breath to reply.

Bandobold was at the fence long before either of them. “I won!”

Sango slowed to a walk. “Well done,” he said breathlessly, pressing a hand to his side.

Tiger Lily didn’t slow, but gave one last burst of energy. When she caught up with Sango she jumped up to throw her arms around his shoulders. “Caught you!”

Sango made a strangling noise and buckled forward. “Get off,” he said with a laugh.

She released him and he linked arms with her as they followed Bandobold over the fence to the field beyond, towards the tree that was growing in the middle. “We need to go back soon,” Sango said as they walked up the steep incline. “The ride back to Overhill is… not insignificant.”

“It’s strange,” Tiger Lily said. “I can’t rid myself of the feeling this is temporary and everything will go back to normal soon. I keep on forgetting this is just the way things are now.”

“Have you seen anything of Opal?”

“A little. But she has her other friends and Buffo…”

“Yes…” He cleared his throat. “Have you seen much of Master Delver?”

Tiger Lily kept her eyes ahead, not daring to look at him. “A little bit. Don’t climb too high, Bully,” she said as Bandobold started to clamber up the tree.

“Tooks,” Sango said with a tut. “It’s not natural to be so keen on heights. Are you going to join him?”

She used her free hand to hold her skirt. “I’m not really dressed for it, dear.”

He gave a light little laugh, and looked up at the sky as they walked. Shortly he began to sing.

_As I walked ‘neath a cloudless sky,_

_O ho o hey o high,_

_I saw a young maid amidst the rye,_

_O ho o hey o high._

Tiger Lily smiled and started to join in on the repeated refrain.

_Lush and bright and fair was she,_

_O ho o hey o high,_

_She said, ‘Come hear the larks with me,’_

_O ho o hey o high._

_She led me o’er the fields of green,_

_O ho o hey o high,_

_To a glade where we would not be seen,_

_O ho o hey o high._

_The running rue covered the ground,_

_O ho o hey o high,_

_The wind blew all the leaves around,_

_O ho o hey o high._

_We heard the larks’ song side by side,_

_O ho o hey o high,_

_I asked if she would be my bride,_

_O ho o hey o high._

“Please don’t climb any higher,” Sango said, looking up at Bandobold as they stepped under the branches of the tree.

“Why?”

“Because I’m the father, and if you fall and break your head open it’ll be a bother to clean up.”

“Don’t say that,” Tiger Lily said, sitting down against the trunk.

Sango joined her, and tilted his head back, closing his eyes. The breeze stirred the dark locks that lay over his forehead. “I could stay like this forever.”

Tiger Lily hugged her knees close. “I could. Maybe.”

Neither said anything for a long while. From here they had a fair view of the East Road and the small figures that were moving along it.

Tiger Lily looked over at Sango. “How does the song end?”

“Hmm?”

“The song about the larks.”

Sango stretched his arms out and yawned. “The young lady says she can’t marry him because she has listened to the larks with other lads before and will listen with more after. So the lad goes home with his heart broken.”

“Oh.” Tiger Lily folded her arms and looked out over the fields. “That’s quite a sad ending for a song that started out so cheerily.”

“Mm… I suppose so.”

“There are big people,” Bandobold said.

Sango opened his eyes sleepily and looked up into the branches. “Don’t be silly.”

“It’s true! Look…” He pointed at the road.

Tiger Lily and Sango exchanged a confused look. She stood, folding her arms to protect herself against the increasingly chilly wind and squinted in the direction Bandobold was pointing.

There were indeed two unfamiliar figures riding along the road. Their waggon and horse dwarfed the fence that bordered the field. Tiger Lily could just pick up their voices; deep and harsh. She turned to Sango in dismay as he went to stand beside her. Maybe her eyes were wrong and he would tell her that there weren’t any big people and everything could go on as before. “It isn’t, is it…?”

“They’re probably just traders,” Sango said. “We have dwarves sometimes, so why shouldn’t we have Men on occasion?” But he didn’t sound very convinced. He tilted his head up to squint at Bandobold. “I think we should make a move. I’d like to get back to Overhill before it’s too dark.”

“But if they’re just traders there’s nothing to worry about,” Bandobold said as he dropped down from the lowest branch.

“I don’t like riding in the dark, it doesn’t matter who’s on the road,” Sango said, but glanced back at the Men as he did. “Come on.”

The walk back to the Tooks’ smial was taken mostly in silence. There were no songs or races. Sango retrieved his pony and set off as soon as they got back, with a hurried goodbye.

Tiger Lily kept one eye on the clock all through dinner. Afterwards she went to her bedroom, put on some jasmine oil and climbed out through the window.

The darkness was settling as she reached Rob. He was sat on the tangled knot of roots beneath the oak tree where they had first kissed.

“Are you all right?” she called ahead, gathering up her skirts to break into a run.

He rose from his seat. “Aye. You?” he called back across the field.

“Yes.” She slowed as she reached the tree, panting. “It’s just that I was out with Sango earlier and we saw… It looked like…” She shook her head. “Never mind.”

She pushed one of her hands into his.

“I’m so glad to see you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m aware that Clover and Abelia’s names would not be spelled the same in English as in Westron, but I can barely speak English so I’m not learning Westron.  
> The song in this chapter is a shameless rip-off of a broadside ballad called ‘The Nightingale’s Song’ (Roud no. 140). There’s also a little bit of ‘Soldier, Poet, King’ by the Oh Hellos in there.


	20. Buttons and Ponies

The inner workings of the old mill lay uselessly on the grass beside the Water. The entire thing had been laid flat; wheels, bricks, beams, tiles and a number of other things Tiger Lily had no way of identifying. In the middle of this detritus, a number of Men were building something. Tiger Lily, Sango and Sango’s cousin Balbus were watching from a little distance away, sat on their ponies. Technically Balbus was one of Tiger Lily’s cousins too, but she knew little of him and was finding it difficult to speak in his presence.

“I wonder what they’re doing,” Balbus said in his slow, deliberate way. He was one of those odd, thoughtful children had started behaving like a Hobbit in his sixties before he was even in his tweens.

“A new mill, perhaps?” Sango said.

“What would be the point of that after it took so long to take the old one apart?”

“I don’t know,” Sango said. “But I do know there are going to be a lot of patches of dead grass if they don’t move those wheels soon.”

Posy started to step back and forth on her hooves uncertainly. Tiger Lily bent down and shushed her, running her hand up and down her neck.

“How many Men do you think there are?” Balbus said.

“Here?” Sango looked over his shoulder at the Hill, which loomed up behind them, casting a great shadow over the village. Even from here a number of Men could be seen around its crest. “At least a dozen. There are four in Overhill. How many in Bywater, Tills?”

“Uh… five, I think. But another wagon arrived yesterday, so I’m not sure…”

“I wonder where they got the pipe-weed from,” Balbus mused, looking over at a couple of Men who were having a break to smoke.

One of the Men realised they were being watched and removed the pipe from his mouth. “You and the wenchling finished gawping?”

Tiger Lily’s stomach twisted and she looked down at the reins in her hands.

Sango drew himself up indignantly. “I beg your pardon!”

“Don’t, Rowley, let’s go,” she mumbled, guiding Posy to turn around.

Sango scowled. “Did you not here what he said?”

Tiger Lily flushed in indignation. “I don’t care. Just leave it be.”

She urged Posy into a trot, taking her down the road from which they’d arrived. Sango brought his pony to a steady plod alongside, with a confused Balbus following him.

“Are you all right?” he said.

“Yes.”

He was watching her expression very carefully and after a brief pause said, “No, you’re not.”

She glowered at him. Why couldn’t he leave well enough alone? “Yes, I am.”

“You can’t pretend you’re fine,” he said. “Not to me. I know you too well for that.”

Tiger Lily rubbed Posy’s neck. “Sango’s being silly, isn’t he?” she cooed.

He rolled his eyes. “ _Sango_ was just trying to defend your honour. And furthermore he doesn’t appreciate being talked over like that.”

Tiger Lily glared at him. “Sango should know that referring to himself by his first name makes him sound like an arrogant ass.”

“Tiger Lily is wilfully avoiding the issue.”

“What are you doing?” Balbus said.

Sango gave Balbus a quick glance before looking back at Tiger Lily and grinning wickedly. “Balbus wants to know what Tiger Lily and Sango are doing. Should they let Balbus join in or should they continue on as they were?”

Tiger Lily wanted to join in with this pointless, mischievous game. But she couldn’t do it in front of Balbus, and she was still reeling from ‘wenchling’, so she just smiled and said, “I don’t mind.”

Sango’s expression relaxed into his usual soppy smile. “You’ve ruined it now. We’ll have to start talking like real people again.”

Balbus huffed and clicked his tongue irritably. “I’m never chaperoning you again.”

* * *

Meg had always liked the bustle of market but the usual friendly energy that filled it on a Friday afternoon as muted today. It had been getting gradually worse over the last few weeks. She smiled at every Hobbit she passed and they smiled back, but no one seemed to feel like talking today. What conversations were happening were about only one thing: the Men.

They had made camp by the side of the East Road and they seemed so at home that it was almost as though they’d always been there.

Meg quickened her pace as she spotted the twins and their mother, who was in the process of apologising to Mr Yardley.

“It’s good of you to be so understanding. What do you say, Aldan?” she said, looking pointedly at Danny.

“Sorry, Mr Yardley,” Danny said, looking down at the ground in a begrudging show of humility.

“What happened?” Meg said when she reached them, watching as Mr Yardley led his pony off down the road.

“This one,” Mrs Delver said, glaring at Danny, “decided it would be a good idea to start teasing Mr Yardley’s pony, like a ninny.”

“I said I was sorry!” Danny said. “Can I go and play with the other lads now?”

“I don’t think you can, seeing as I can’t take my eyes off you for five minutes.”

He groaned. “Aw, Mum—”

“Don’t you talk to me in that tone, young mister.” She saw that Fastad had closed his eyes and screwed his face up in distress. “Oh, lad.” She went and put her arms around his shoulders. “I’m not angry with you. No need to get upset.”

“How can I help?” Meg said.

“You can tell me how you got on at the baker’s,” Mrs Delver said.

Meg swallowed. “I got a loaf, but they’re making ‘em smaller than they used to.” She pulled back the cloth that covered her basket to reveal the cob loaf she had just bought. “I din’t have the money for two… I’m really sorry, Mum, I know—”

“Hush, lass, it’s not your doing.”

“But how’ll we—?”

“We’ll manage. We might just have to do a few more favours around the village, that’s all. People are kind, if you let them be.”

“Dad won’t like that.”

“Dad’ll just have to put up with it, won’t ‘e? At least you had better luck than I did at the butcher’s,” she said, giving Meg a meaningful glance.

“Nothing?”

“No. But Hetty’s stopped laying, so I’ll have one of the lads slaughter her. That’ll do us for this week.”

Meg looked out over the market. This was very not good. “What’s going on, Mum?”

“Don’t know what you’re asking me for,” Mrs Delver said with a scoff. “I don’t know any better than you. Now.” She looked back down at Fastad. He had managed to calm down now but his eyes were still watery. “Why don’t you go with Meg while she gets me some more cotton thread?”

Meg smiled and held a hand out to him. “Come on, lad.” Fastad silently went to stand next to her. Meg placed a hand on his shoulder and looked at their mother. “How much to you need?”

“A couple of skeins. Brown if you can, or a dark green. An’ I also need a dozen or so buttons. Here.” She pushed a few copper coins into Meg’s hand.

Fastad kept close to her as they made their way to the haberdashery. Meg still couldn’t shake the feeling that, in some way, the smaller size of the loaf had been her fault.

“Meg!”

She snapped to attention at the sound of her name.

“Hello, Miss Lavender,” Fastad said as the lass fell into step with the Delvers.

Lavender grinned. “And hello to you, young master. You going to _Button’s?_ ”

“Aye.”

“Me too. We need more wool.”

“How are things your end?” Meg said. “Any better?”

“A bit. We’ve started making wheels for the Men.” She scowled at the road ahead. “It’s awful, ain’t it? But we’ve got no choice, Dad says, ‘cus they’ve got their own iron for the tyres an’ the smith’s been short of late.”

Meg shrugged. “Don’t know. I know folks aren’t happy about ‘em being here, but I don’t know that they’ve _done_ anything to earn our bad opinion. Our Jack says Men must be about as decent as Hobbits, an’ he’s always been cleverer than me.”

Lavender sniffed as they stepped into the haberdashery. “Dad said something similar. But their wheels are so much harder to make—our tools aren’t big enough to do ‘em properly.”

The haberdashery was empty, save a red-haired lad sweeping the floor. The rhythmic whir of a spinning wheel could be heard coming from somewhere in the back. Lavender went to a basket of wool while Meg went to the tray of buttons, Fastad trailing after her. The tray was divided into small, square compartments, each of which contained a different type of button.

“They’ve all gotten mixed up,” Fastad said.

“Mmm…” Meg hummed, looking over the contents of the tray. Their mother wasn’t usually too fussy about the buttons on clothes matching—there were too many to bother. She picked out some cheap wooden ones. “You’d better sort ‘em out, then,” she said absentmindedly.

“Don’t you have any more yellow?” Lavender said, a ball of wool in each hand.

“No. Sorry,” the red-haired lad said nervously. “It’s a popular colour.”

“When will you have more?”

“Not today, I’m afraid.”

Lavender huffed and put the balls of wool back in the basket.

“Be nice,” Meg said, moving towards a basket of threads.

“I needed yellow.”

“It should teach you to be more patient.” When she looked up she saw Lavender had moved on to ribbons, and was comparing them against her plait. “Come into some money, have you?”

“Aye. The Men might be brutes but they pay well enough. But do you know, our Nick asked if he could have a bit of leaf, an’ they said…” She glanced at Fastad. “Something I can’t repeat in front of the lad. I reckon this one’d suit you better than me,” she said, taking an indigo ribbon and comparing it to Meg’s hair.

“Leave off,” Meg said.

“It’s a nice contrast to the reddish-ness,” Lavender said, pulling her hair up and tying a bow. She looked around the room. “There’s no mirror.” She took Meg by the shoulders and spun her to face the red-haired lad. “What do you think?”

The lad made a murmuring noise and shrugged before turning away to continue his sweeping in a different corner of the shop.

Meg pulled the ribbon from her hair and started to wind it around her fingers. “He has better things to do, an’ I don’t reckon he appreciates you testing out his wares like that.” She hesitated. “Do you think Nick would like it?”

Lavender took the ribbon back with a short, irritated sigh. “I don’t know, you’ll have to ask him.”

“It’s just that he han’t been to see me since we…” She had been going to say ‘kissed’, but stopped herself. “…Went picking nettles.”

Lavender froze. “Do you mean actually picking nettles, or do you mean something else?”

The red-haired lad suddenly changed the direction of his sweeping to move as far away from the conversation as possible. Thankfully Fastad didn’t seem to have noticed. Meg scowled at Lavender.

“I meant actually picking actual, real nettles.”

She went to approach the lad while Lavender muttered about how people use all sorts of euphemisms. She held out the thread and buttons. “How much for these?”

“Uh…” He pushed through the buttons to count them. He was visibly flustered and the tips of his ears were pink. “That’d be ninepence.”

“You done, Lavender?” Meg said as she handed the coins over.

“Aye. Reckon so.”

Meg glanced around. “Fastad?” She found he had moved away from the tray of buttons. He was now stood by the rack of fabrics and was rubbing some material between his thumb and forefinger. “We’re going now, lad.”

“It’s soft, Meg,” he said.

She went to stand by his side. It was a smooth material, a far cry from the rough-but-hardy wools and flax that the Delvers’ clothes were made of. “It’s satin. We can’t afford it. Come on, Mum’ll be waiting for us.”

Fastad drew his hand away reluctantly.

“I, uh, think we might have some off-cuts,” the red-haired lad said, going behind the counter.

“No, don’t trouble yourself,” Meg said, putting one of her hands on Fastad’s shoulder in preparation to shepherd him out of the shop.

“No trouble,” he said and handed her a small rectangle of the satin. “No charge either.”

Meg hesitated in taking the material, not sure if it counted as charity or not. It only took a moment more for her to decide that Fastad was more important than charity. “Thank’ee, master. Come along, Fastad.”

She and the others went back out onto the street. Meg waited until Fastad had wondered far enough ahead that he wouldn’t hear her before she turned back to Lavender. “Has Nick asked after me?”

“By Elbereth, Meg…” Lavender muttered. “There’s Big Folk in the village an’ all you care about is our Nick.”

She scowled. “Mayhap I’m weary of talking about the Men. We can’t just stop everything ‘cus they’re here.”

“He’s not mentioned you.” Lavender gave an irritable sigh and looked up at the grey sky. “The weather’s taken a turn.”

“Could you talk to him?”

“I ain’t getting mixed up in this. You want to talk to him, you do it yourself; like a grown-up.”

“You’re my friend,” Meg said.

“I can tell ‘im you’re upset,” she said. “But that’s all I’ll do. Can we talk about something else? How’s Clover?”

“Not seen her much of late,” Meg said, and frowned. “We’ll see her today, though. She always drops her wages off with us on a Friday, an’ Mum always insists she stays for dinner.”

Ahead of her Meg could see that Fastad had found Danny, and bid a quick goodbye to Lavender before hurrying on to find her mother.

When Meg returned home with the others Jonson and Jack were playing dice at the kitchen table while Rob and Poppy were scrubbing potatoes.

“I hope you’re not gambling,” Mrs Delver said, putting her basket on the table before going to leave the room again. “Your father home with Martin yet?”

“No,” Jonson muttered.

“Has anyone else been in?” Meg said as she put her own basket on the table. “Primrose or… anyone?”

“No. Should there’ve been?” Jonson said, raising an eyebrow at her.

Meg made a mumbling noise as she turned away to find an apron. “Where’s Clover?”

“Not here,” Jack said, rolling the dice with a clatter.

“What?”

“You listening? She’s not here.”

Mrs Delver returned, hefting an axe. “Now, which of you lads is going to slaughter Hetty for me?”

Jonson grimaced while Rob lumbered off, rubbing his hands on his breeches and murmuring something about fixing a door for Widow Stabler.

“For goodness sake,” Jack said, and took the axe with both hands. “If you can’t stand to do it, just say so.”

“Clover’s not here,” Meg said.

“Aye?” Mrs Delver said, raising an eyebrow at her. “You surprised by that?”

“She always comes by on a Friday.”

“She also said she’d come by last Sunday,” Poppy said. “ _And_ she din’t come by for Maizey’s birthday.”

“That’s enough, now,” Mrs Delver said, putting a hand on her shoulder. 

“She’d’ve just been busy, won’t she, Mum?” Meg said. “Or tired from work.”

Mrs Delver smiled, but there was something odd about it. “Aye. Mayhap she’s just running late.”

As Meg helped with the dinner she kept an ear out for the door. Whenever someone did come into the smial she looked to the hallway, expecting it to be Clover. But Clover never arrived. By the time dinner was eaten and the washing up finished Meg had moved into a state of calm practicality. She left the kitchen silently in search of Maizey, and whatever other siblings were available. The solution was simple, really. If Clover was too busy to find the time for them, they would just have to find the time for her.

* * *

“I’m looking forward to having nieces and nephews,” Abelia said. “And sisters-in-law.”

“Mmm…” Clover murmured. She was only half listening. Most of her concentration was going towards trying to copy out the line Abelia had written at the top of the page.

“Not that I imagine I’ll get along _very_ well with Dalgo’s wife. She’ll probably be as horrid as he is. I hope he will get married soon, though. It might make him less of an ass.”

“Answering that’s above my pay, miss.”

There was a knock at the front door and Clover reflexively rose from her chair.

“Someone else can get it,” Abelia said.

Clover relaxed again, settling down and taking the pen back up. She had forgotten she had been dismissed for the day.

Young Mrs Grubb came into the kitchen a moment later, looking perplexed.

“Clover, there are some… individuals at the door asking to see you.”

Clover’s stomach lurched when she stepped into the corridor. Meg, Jonson, Jack and Maizey were there, looking out of place amongst the quiet finery of the Grubb’s smial.

“Hello, Clover,” Meg said, smiling. “What—”

“Outside,” Clover mumbled, giving Jonson a shove to get them going.

“What—”

“We can talk outside,” she said. She knew her face was flushing as she herded the confused group out of the smial. When they were all outside Clover kept her hands folded and her face straight. “What are you all doing here?”

“Here to see you, of course. What time d’you get off?” Jonson said.

Meg smiled at her. “Look at you in your fancy weeds.” She made to touch Clover’s sleeve, but her hand was batted away.

“Leave. All of you. Now.”

Meg’s face fell. “Clover…”

Jack sneered at her. “Right. You’re too good for us, are you? You embarrassed to be seen with us?”

Meg looked agape at him. “Stop it, Jack.”

Clover did her best not to rise to it, but clasped her hands tighter, her nails digging painfully into the back of her hand.

Maizey had been fishing her pocket and brought out a small package. “Here, catch. It’ll be a bit soft now.”

Clover caught the package in both hands. She peeled back the paper to reveal half a biscuit. She frowned and looked back up at Maizey.

“It was my birthday on Wednesday,” she said simply.

Clover froze. “Oh.” She slowly wrapped the biscuit back up and put it in her pocket as she tried to think of what the best thing to do would be. “I’m sorry I didn’t drop by. I can’t leave right this minute. But if you like we can go down the _Dragon_ during the week.”

Maizey shrugged. “All right. You’re paying.”

Clover nodded and started to edge her way back into the smial, watching them like they were a pack of hungry dogs. “You ever come here again you come by the back way, understand?”

Jonson stepped forward, fuming. “You little bloody—” He made a choking sound as Meg caught the back of his collar.

“Let’s be going,” she said quietly. She turned her sad, blue-green eyes to Clover. “We’ll see you another day, then. Sorry.”

Clover nodded, silently turned about and returned to the smial, shutting the door firmly behind her.

“What was that for?” Jonson said, rubbing his throat and glaring at Meg.

“You’re not easy to stop once you get going,” Meg said with a weary sigh as she walked back down the garden path.

“That don’t mean you’re allowed to throttle me.”

“So what do we do now, then?” Maizey said.

“Nothing,” Jack said, folding his arms. “Five bloody minutes in a fancy smial and she thinks she’s outgrown us.”

“That’s all she’s outgrown,” Jonson said.

“Why’d you always do that, Jonson?” Meg said.

“I wouldn’t do nothing if she weren’t such a difficult little chit.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” Jack said. “She obviously don’t care a fig about what we think.”

“She was embarrassed, that’s all,” Meg said. “Wouldn’t you be?”

“I usually am. I’ve learned to cope with it.”

“Push off,” Jonson said, shoving him.

“Look,” Maizey said in a hushed voice, smacking Jonson with the back of her hand. “It’s that Took what’s gone doe-y eyed over Rob.”

Maizey started to drag Jonson away towards the top of North Bank Row, where Tiger Lily was leading her pony home.

Meg looked over at Jack. “Do you really get embarrassed?”

“Not often. Clover’s too up herself.”

Meg inhaled deeply. “This was stupid. I should’ve known coming here would upset her.”

“You couldn’t be expected to know that. If this is where she’s living now, how else’re we supposed to see her?”

She sighed. “What’re you doing this afternoon?”

“Not much.”

“You going to see Nickon Hobble?”

Jack’s shoulders tensed. “Don’t know.”

She turned and started to walk back to East Warren Lane. There was probably something useful she could be doing at home. “If you do, try to mention me at some point.”

* * *

Tiger Lily huffed as she set the full bucket before Posy. “There we are.” The pony immediately bent down and started slurping up the water.

“Good girl,” Tiger Lily said and sighed. She needed something to do to distract her from this restless, burning feeling. After she had groomed Posy she would need to clean her tack. What then? She turned to hide her head in Posy’s side. “I’m not a wenchling,” she muttered.

“Hello.”

Tiger Lily’s looked up sharply and froze. Two Hobbits—a lad and a lass—were stood on the other side of the fence, watching her and grinning. She opened her mouth to speak, but didn’t know what to say. She recognised the lass from somewhere…

“You walking out with our Rob, then?” the lass said.

Ah, yes, that was it. The sister she’d met at the _Green Dragon_. Tiger Lily rubbed Posy’s side and avoided making eye contact. “We walk sometimes,” she said quietly, and glanced nervously at the lad.

“This is our Jonson,” Maizey said, apparently sensing what Tiger Lily was thinking.

“All right, lass?” Jonson said, and flicked his head to one side to get his inky hair out of his eyes.

“Rob sent us to invite you round ours tomorrow,” Maizey said.

Tiger Lily frowned and wrapped the reins around her hand as Posy lifted her snout from the bucket. “Oh. He didn’t say anything when I last saw him…”

“He forgot, an’ he busy today, which is why he sent us,” Jonson said without missing a beat. “He wants you to meet the rest of the family.” A bright smile graced his features. “Can’t say as I blame him. If he’s not careful I might steal you for myself.”

Tiger Lily’s cheeks grew warm. She had no defence for that. “What, uh, what time?”

“Six-ish,” Maizey said, grabbing Jonson’s arm to tug him away. “See you then?”

“Nice to meet you,” Jonson said.

Tiger Lily nodded, looking down. “And you,” she mumbled. Something quite important occurred to her and she looked up as Jonson and Maizey were walking away. “Whereabouts do you live?”

“12 East Warren Lane,” Maizey called over her shoulder.

“All right.” Tiger Lily wrung her fingers. “Am I supposed to bring anything?”

“Don’t know. Can if you like,” Maizey said. And then they were gone.

Tiger Lily tried to ignore the churning feeling in her stomach as she led Posy to the stables. So far her and Rob’s courtship had existed in isolation to everyone else in their lives. This hadn’t been a deliberate choice on her part, just a consequence of her having no other friends to introduce him to. There was Sango, but he had already told her such a courtship would be a bad idea. Opal wouldn’t be happy that he hadn’t asked for permission. What would her mother say if she brought Rob home?

She shuddered.

* * *

“That was a bit much, Jon-lad,” Maizey said.

“Don’t call me that.”

“We don’t want you to steal her.”

“I don’t rightly know what you want, Maize. I ain’t planning on stealing her, neither.”

Maizey looked at him sceptically. “That so? You’d best tell her that.”

“You wanted my help convincing her,” Jonson said. “What did you expect me to do? Plain lasses are easy…”


	21. Delving

_Dearest Father,_

_I am glad to hear that you are feeling better and that you had a nice birthday. Thank you for the daisies; they were very pretty. I am sorry to hear that nothing has been found of our kin. I hope you aren’t too disheartened and I hope Hildiwin will treat you fairly if he’s not inclined to be in the command of others._

_I wonder at you wondering why I asked about our female cousins. I know so few Tooks (particularly other ladies) that it’s only natural I should be curious. I have taken pains to forget Aunt Lalia._

_Little has happened here. Sango, Uncle Hortenbold and I went camping a few nights ago. Can you remember which of the Old Took’s sons taught Grandfather to make a fire? Uncle H couldn’t remember, but I know you would know._

_The Boffins had a farewell party at the farm. I don’t think you would have enjoyed it, so it goes to show that there are advantages to being away from home! I have started working on Bandobold’s bow myself, to save Uncle H the effort, though I am not sure my craft is sufficient. In Sango’s absence I have been trying to make some new acquaintances. It has been difficult, but I have been able to find some success._

_I hope you and the rest of our family will soon succeed in your endeavour._

_Your Loving Daughter,_

_Tiger Lily_

* * *

“Draw.”

“…”

“Properly.”

Bandobold glared at her and lowered the bow. There was an overly-long, unfinished arrow nocked on the string. “I am.”

“No, you’re not.” Tiger Lily went to stand beside him and placed a hand on his back. “Shoulder blades together, please.”

When Bandobold came to full draw again, she walked around to better see the arrow. “Hold…” She made a quick pencil mark on the shaft. “Relax.”

Their mother was watching them from a seat in the corner, Tiger Lily’s letter in her hands. She didn’t often come into the woodworking shed and she looked distinctly out of place in her lacy gown.

“I’d like you to make a few changes, dear,” she said. “You can’t write such things about Lalia the Great.”

“Why not? Again, please, Bandobold.”

“Because she was the Thain’s wife, and head of the family for twenty years.”

“But no one liked her and she’s been dead for so long,” Tiger Lily said, making a mark on the arrow. “And again, Bandobold.”

“In a way that makes it worse. I’d also like you to omit the comment about him not enjoying the Boffins’ party. It’s not appropriate, given the circumstances.”

Bandobold un-nocked the arrow and handed it to Tiger Lily. “I just wanted to make Father laugh,” she said.

Her mother never replied to this, as Uncle Hortenbold chose that moment to enter the shed. “Here you all are,” he said. “I’ve got this to send off.” He handed his own letter to Mrs Took.

“Thank you, Hortenbold, that’s lovely.”

“It’s not like you to be in here, sister,” he said as he ran a finger over one of the work tables.

“I thought it best someone supervise them. We don’t want any accidents.”

“Quite.” He grimaced at the grime his finger had collected and turned to Tiger Lily. “You’re worse than your father. It wouldn’t hurt you to run a cloth around.”

“I was going to clean after I’d finished making the arrows,” Tiger Lily said. “I thought that was the most sensible way to do things.” It hadn’t actually occurred to her to clean when she’d finished, but she wanted it to seem like it had. A real adult would have thought of it.

“A tidy workspace reflects a tidy mind. Are you finished, then?” he said, nodding at the bow in Bandobold’s hands.

“Yes.”

“May I see?” He held a hand out to Bandobold, who handed the unstrung bow over to him. “I’ll admit I was surprised when I heard you were making it yourself,” Uncle Hortenbold said as he ran his hand and eyes over the stave.

“Mother says she’s being contrary,” Bandobold said. Tiger Lily scowled at him.

“Is that so?” Uncle Hortenbold said in a tone of voice that showed he wasn’t really listening. “Your father hadn’t made a start on this before he set out, had he?”

“No.”

“No.” He bent the stave to set the string into the grooves and handed it back to Bandobold. “Let me see you at full draw.”

Bandobold huffed, but took the bow from him and drew back, bringing his shoulder blades together.

Uncle Hortenbold took out his pocket watch. “Hold…” Time passed. Bandobold’s arm started to tremble. Hortenbold closed the case of his watch with a snap. “That’s enough.”

Bandobold relaxed his arm, and lowered the bow.

“How does it feel?” Uncle Hortenbold said.

“It’s a bit strong,” Bandobold said. “I’ll get used to it. It’s just that my old one was too weak.”

“Mm.”

“Can I go now?”

“Yes. Do.”

“Come along, dear,” Mrs Took said as she rose from her chair. “It should be time for luncheon.”

Tiger Lily wrung her fingers as Uncle Hortenbold took the bow back and watched her with a critical eye. They stood in silence as the others left the shed.

“He’s a little overbowed,” Uncle Hortenbold said.

“Oh.” Tiger Lily bent her head down as her heart sank. “Sorry.”

“I can observe him using it properly the next time we go hunting. I’ll take his old bow with us so he can switch if it’s too much for him. I might need to make him another in the interim. Otherwise…” He turned the stave over in his hands. “It’s fine work.”

Tiger Lily raised her head again. “Is it?”

“Yes. Well done.”

She wasn’t able to hold back her grin. “Is it really?”

“You seem surprised,” Uncle Hortenbold said.

“I am,” she said as she followed him out of the shed. “It’s the first time I’ve made a bow without Father there to make sure I was doing it properly.”

“Improvements could be made. But you could be a good bowyer, if you keep at it.” He put his hands in his pockets as they left the yard. “Does this mean you’ll start accompanying me and Bandobold again?”

“I don’t think so,” Tiger Lily said carefully. “Do you have the time?”

Hortenbold took his pocket watch out again. “Coming up to quarter past five.”

“Thank you.” It was all she could do not to rush on ahead. She didn’t want to be late to dinner with the Delvers—not least because she had never been to that part of Bywater before and she wasn’t entirely sure how long it would take her to get there. She started to trot on ahead.

“Where are you going?” he called after her.

“I have errands to run.”

“Of what sort?”

“The general sort.” She left the garden before he could ask her anymore.

Tiger Lily had been planning to go to the market to get a contribution for the Delver’s table. But when she arrived she found a small group of angry Hobbits outside the bakery. She hung back, not sure of what was happening and too nervous to ask.

She inched towards the group in hope of overhearing their conversation and gaining some understanding of what was going on.

“What’re we expected to do?” one lady said. “This is the third time this week.”

“They can’t keep open if they’ve got nothing to sell,” a second lady said.

“Next time I see Trolen Baker I’ll give ‘im a kick up the backside.”

None of them noticed Tiger Lily as she slipped away. Not sure of what else to do, she made her way towards East Warren Lane, but couldn’t stop worrying about what would happen when she got there; if they’d be angry with her for not having anything to give.

It didn’t take Tiger Lily nearly as long as she thought to reach the lane, and she found herself looking uncertainly at the door to Number 12. She had gone up the path twice already, but hadn’t had the nerve to knock. Now she was back on the lane, hoping that the chestnut tree obscured her from the view of anyone who might be inside.

A young lass walked past, carrying a full bucket of water. She gave Tiger Lily a funny look as she entered the smial.

Tiger Lily peeked out from behind the tree. At least now she knew for certain that someone was inside. She took a few steps towards the gate, but hesitated. It would be too strange to knock immediately. On the other hand, it would also be strange for her to wait, with the lass knowing that Tiger Lily was stood outside for no good reason. She remained where she was, frozen and trembling, no more able to move than the tree she was hiding behind.

She heard the sound of the door opening and a matron came to stand at the gate. Her fair skin was offset by black hair, only just starting to turn grey. “You all right out here, love?”

Tiger Lily felt her cheeks growing warm. “Yes. Thank you.”

Mrs Delver nodded. She cast her unsettlingly blue eyes over Tiger Lily, and judging by her expression she wasn’t impressed by what they saw. “Would you be Miss Took by any chance?”

Tiger Lily’s mouth hung open stupidly. “Uh…”

“If you’re here to see our Rob he an’ the others won’t be back for another half hour or so.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“What’s your name, love?”

Tiger Lily turned her face to the ground and mumbled her reply.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

She raised her head again. “Tiger Lily.”

Mrs Delver gave a slight roll of the eyes. “Why don’t you come in and have some tea while you wait?”

“I wouldn’t want to trouble you…”

“I insist,” Mrs Delver said, and grinned dangerously. It was a grin that said: You will come inside, you will have tea, and you will be grateful.

Tiger Lily quietly followed Mrs Delver inside without further objection. She suspected that attempting to argue would only result in her appearing more foolish that she already did, which may or may not have been Mrs Delver’s intent.

Tiger Lily inhaled sharply as she entered the smial, but did her best no to make her shock obvious. It was a far cry from the clean panelled walls and polished floor tiles of her own home. The floor here was slightly damp. The kitchen was windowless, and the only light came from two candles; one on the long table that too up most of the room, and one on a work surface. By the smell of it the meat was already in the oven. This made her feel a little better about not checking the butcher’s.

The lass from earlier was shelling peas at the long table and gave Tiger Lily a silent, nervous glance.

“This is our Myrtle,” Mrs Delver said briskly. “Myrtle, this is Miss Tiger Lily Took.”

“Hello, miss,” Myrtle said quietly.

“Myrtle, I need you to go out an’ get some more water for tea. For our guest.”

Tiger Lily’s stomach dropped. “No, really, that’s—”

“Off you go, Mert,” Mrs Delver said, picking up the bucket.

Myrtle obediently got up to take the bucket, giving Tiger Lily one last distrustful look before leaving. Mrs Delver started busying herself shelling the peas, leaving Tiger Lily to stand alone in the corner. She waited for some acknowledgement—at the very least to be told she could sit down. But it was as though Mrs Delver had forgotten she existed. It was excruciating.

“Could… could I help you with anything, Mrs Delver?” she said, wringing her fingers.

“You could help with the carrots if you like,” she said, indicating a basket that was sat next to the bowl of peas. “There should be a little bit of water left in the jug to wash ‘em with.”

The relief from being of use was like a cool bath in a heatwave. She washed the carrots as best she could with the dregs from the jug. Tiger Lily looked over at Mrs Delver, and was surprised to find that the matron was turning her head away to look at her own work. She had been watching Tiger Lily.

“Is everything all right, mistress?” she said.

“Aye.”

“May I use this knife?” Tiger Lily said, moving to the knife and chopping board on a different part of the table.

“Aye,” Mrs Delver said in a disconnected sort of way.

Tiger Lily started to top and tail the carrots, aware that Mrs Delver was continually looking at her. She started putting too much focus on what she was doing—on where she was holding the knife and where she was placing her fingers to avoid the blade. Even if she was only chopping vegetables, she wanted to show that she could. She didn’t cook much, only usually helping her mother on a Friday when the servants had the afternoon off. This only made her desire to prove her ability greater, despite knowing the absurdity of it. At the very least she knew how to handle a knife. She removed the roots from the final carrot and started to peel it.

“Don’t do that,” Mrs Delver said.

Tiger Lily dropped the knife and jumped back, as though burned. “Sorry,” she said automatically.

Mrs Delver sighed. “We don’t peel carrots is all. It’s a waste.”

“Sorry,” Tiger Lily squeaked. “Mother always tells me to—”

“It’s all right,” Mrs Delver said wearily. “Here, I’ll do it.”

Tiger Lily chewed her lip. “Sorry. Is there anything else I can do?”

“No. Just sit yourself down.”

Myrtle returned a little while later with the water. Tiger Lily spent the remainder of her time there sipping tea while Myrtle eyed her suspiciously and Mrs Delver asked her questions: where she lived, if her father had a business, if she had any siblings…

The difficulty came when she started asking about the Tooks and who had disappeared on adventures. There was an unspoken rule that these things were not to be talked about _._ Especially to people outside the family.

She started to wonder when Rob would arrive…

* * *

“You shouldn’t give in to him,” Mr Delver said, looking up at Martin, who was being carried on Rob’s back. “You’ll do your back in.”

“I’m all right,” Rob said, shifting his grip on Martin’s legs.

“He’s old enough to walk himself.”

“My feet were hurting,” Martin said, half-hiding his face in Rob’s neck.

Rob tilted his head up slightly to try and get a look at his brother’s face. “I thought martins could fly,” he said.

“I’m not a real martin.”

“Right. I see.”

As they entered the smial Rob ducked down under the doorframe, making Martin squeal. He froze when he saw Tiger Lily sat in the kitchen. “Wuh…”

Tiger Lily felt faint when she saw his stricken expression.

_He hadn’t been expecting me…_

“For goodness sake, Rob, get ‘im off your shoulders, he’ll hit his head,” Mrs Delver said.

Rob knelt, still pale, and allowed Martin to climb down.

Maizey whooped as she entered into the kitchen with the stream of other Delvers. “You turned up, then.”

Tiger Lily couldn’t reply. There were too many people in too little space and the noise took up all the room in her head.

As the rest of the Delvers came in, the kitchen was suddenly filled with a rush of activity. Tiger Lily stumbled away from the table as two of Rob’s other sisters bustled to help their mother with the food.

“Who’s this?” one of the younger Delvers said.

“Rob’s young lady,” Mrs Delver said. “She’s dropped by for a visit. Uninvited.”

Tiger Lily looked to Rob. He had slumped in a chair, looking just at overwhelmed by the noise as she was.

Mr Delver gave his wife a kiss on the cheek. “Good day, love?”

“Good enough.” She glanced at Tiger Lily and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Tiger Lily and Bandobold, that’s all you need to know about her parents.”

Mr Delver turned his attention to Tiger Lily. He stood before her and folded his arms, looking over her from head to toe.

“You’re a mite taller than when we last spoke,” he said gruffly.

This wasn’t something Tiger Lily had been expecting. “What?”

“I was one of them that found you an’ Master Boffin when you got lost. Years ago.”

“I remember that,” Mrs Delver said, smiling sincerely for the first time since she had seen Tiger Lily. “That was quite a nice evening.”

“That’s all right for you to say,” Mr Delver said. “You weren’t out there looking for ‘em.”

“No, but I waited up for you, and it was only a week or so before Martin was born, so I was out to here.” She indicated the size of her bump with her hands. “And little Rob couldn’t sleep for worry so we waited together. Do you remember that, Robby?”

“Yes,” Rob mumbled. He had ducked his head down between his shoulders.

“And you was feeling the baby kick, and you asked if I thought it was a lad or a lass. I said a lass because then we’d have six of each. Then I asked you if you wanted a brother or sister, and you said, ‘I don’t mind, Mum, I’ve got plenty of each,’” Mrs Delver was grinning from ear to ear. She looked at Tiger Lily; the only one in the room who hadn’t heard this story many times over. “Ain’t that sweet?”

“It is,” Tiger Lily said, doing her best not to smile. Even though Rob’s face wasn’t visible, the points of his ears were red.

“I suppose I’d best make the introductions…” Mr Delver said, and proceeded to point out each of his children and give their name. Tiger Lily tried desperately to keep track as the Delvers moved around the room to take their seats.

“That’s Martin,” he said, indicating the child who’d been on Rob’s shoulders. “An’ these are the twins: Danny and Fastad.”

“I’m older!” Danny said.

Tiger Lily looked from Danny to Fastad and back again. The former had a mop of loose brown locks, and brown eyes to match. The latter was shorter and had black curls with striking green eyes.

“I thought all twins looked the same,” she murmured.

Danny and Fastad looked at each other.

“You soft in the head?” Danny said.

“Aldan!” Mr Delver barked from across the room.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I thought all Tooks was fair an’ pale.”

Tiger Lily tried not to look at anyone while she murmured about her grandmother being of Harfoot descent.

“Do you know any fairies?” Fastad said.

“Uh… Not that I know of. Sorry.”

“Fetch a box from the parlour, would you, Jon?” Mrs Delver said. “I can sit on that while the guest has a proper chair.”

By now the table was laid with fifteen plates, with portions of bread, peas and carrots. There wasn’t much on each plate. Even with the current shortages the Tooks has at least twice as much at their table. But the scent of meat cooking was still heavy in the air. 

“Don’t you have to get the meat out of the oven?” Tiger Lily said.

Mrs Delver averted her eyes. “There isn’t any.”

Tiger Lily frowned in surprise. “But… the smell…”

There was an uncomfortable silence and none of the Delvers seemed to want to answer her.

“It’s the candles,” Jack said.

“What?”

“Tallow candles. They smell like meat when you burn ‘em.”

“Oh…”

Suddenly all the plates seemed much emptier and were made emptier still by the fifteenth plate laid out for her. Her panic rose to a point where it was unbearable. She wasn’t supposed to be here. She was never supposed to be here.

“I think… I’m just going to wait outside,” she said.

“But we’ve laid out a place for you,” Mrs Delver said. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“No. Thank you. Sorry for intruding,” she mumbled, leaving the room as quickly as she could. She stumbled past Mr Delver and didn’t reply as he asked where she was going.

Tiger Lily sat on the step and cradled her head in her hands, relishing the cool air on her warm face. She had always known that there were people worse off than her, but she had never had to face the reality of it before. Fiery guilt filled her limbs, consuming her from the inside.

She waited for the longest time. Eventually various Delvers started to come out of the smial and she had to move from the step. Raised voices could he heard from inside. Eventually the door was opened by Rob, who turned back to shout, “Stay out of my bloody business, Maizey!” before slamming the door. He sighed heavily and passed a hand over his face before turning to Tiger Lily. “You all right, lass?” he said.

“Yes,” she whimpered. “I’m sorry for embarrassing you. I thought you asked me to come.”

“You weren’t to know. You might want to step away from the woodpile, there’s snakes live in there.”

Tiger Lily carelessly took a few steps to her right but couldn’t approach him. “You’re not angry?”

“Not with you.” He took her hand and they started to walk down the street.

“So…” Tiger Lily said, wrestling with a smile. “Plenty of each?”

“Shut up,” he said mildly.

“I didn’t think you minded what others think of you.”

“I have my limits.”

Tiger Lily swallowed as she thought about how to phrase her concerns. “You didn’t tell me things were so dire with your family.”

His expression became stormy again. “They’re not.”

She sighed as she tried to reword what she meant. “Sorry. I only meant that it’s dire for everyone at the moment and some of your little brothers and sisters are so… little.”

This seemed to relieve some of his anger and his expression relaxed. “Aye.” He sighed. “Naught to be done. Times are hard.”

Tiger Lily looked fixedly at the ground and thought. “There might be something…”

* * *

“Lass?”

Tiger Lily looked askance at Rob, smiled and put a finger to her lips.

“Right,” he said in a whisper. “But—”

A little frustrated, Tiger Lily put a hand on his shoulder and again pressed the finger to her lips, glaring at him.

He turned away from her to look ahead, and sighed.

It was night now, and they were knelt behind a gap in the hedgerow—small enough to hide them from their quarry but big enough to get a reasonable shot. There were no voices or footsteps, no hoof beats or eyes. Just the two of them, the land beneath and the sky above.

It was like they were the only people in the world.

Tiger Lily heard what she had been listening out for: the unmistakable rustling of a living creature making its way through the grass.

Keeping a hand on her bowstring, she stood. Taking careful steps she moved to get a better look. In the moonlight she could just see the backs of two rabbits grazing, oblivious to her presence.

Tiger Lily drew, moving with a silence that can only be achieved by a Hobbit that does not want to be noticed. Looking down her arrow, she took aim at the closest rabbit and loosed.

There was a squeal, and a whooshing sound as the other rabbit shot away. The first rabbit was trying to scramble away in a panic.

“Bloody…”

Tiger Lily nocked another arrow as quickly as she could and loosed again. The rabbit fell onto its side and didn’t move anymore. She nodded at Rob to follow her through the hedge.

“What were you trying to say before?” she whispered.

“I was just going to ask if we’re allowed to be out here.”

“It’s common land, it’s fine.” She knelt by the rabbit and removed the arrows, wiping them on the grass to clean them. “Sorry. It was a clear shot, I should have been able to get it in one and now I’ve pierced the hide. Would you like me to gut him here for you?” she said, unbuckling a side-pocket of her quiver to get her hunting knife.

But Rob did something she hadn’t expected. He knelt down beside her and started to stroke the dead rabbit between its ears. Tiger Lily suddenly felt awkward. She wasn’t sure what this meant, or what he wanted her to do.

“I have to kill chickens sometimes,” he said eventually. “An’ even though they don’t know what’s happening you can see they’re afeared. Hate seeing things afeared…”

Tiger Lily watched him—the drawn look on his face. “Is that why you spoke to me?”

He looked back at her and blinked. “What?”

“You came up to me in the _Green Dragon_ , the day after the harvest festival. I sometimes wonder why. Was it because you could see I was afraid?”

Rob opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He looked ashamed.

Tiger Lily leaned over to rest her head on his shoulder. “I don’t mind.”

He turned his head towards her and nuzzled into her hair.

Tiger Lily smiled. “I hate to ruin the mood, but we are knelt over a dead rabbit. It’ll start to rot if I don’t gut it now.”

“You know how to talk sweet, don’t you?”

“It’s a gift.”

“You can swear too,” he said, a small smile on his lips.

“Of course I can swear,” Tiger Lily said. “But it’s unmaidenly, so don’t ask me to curse on command, and especially not in public.” She tutted as she examined her arrows.

“What?” Rob said.

“This.” She held up one of her arrows from him to see. One of the fletchings had been partially torn away. “There’s another I need to repair at home. Why do they never stick?” she muttered.

Rob looked intently at the arrow. “I remember our mum told us a story about Griselina Took, who had to travel over the mountains when her sweetheart was turned to a stag. Her arrows was fletched with feathers from a fire bird…”

“Yes…” Tiger Lily replaced the arrows in her quiver and set about skinning the rabbit. Her father was fond of that one. “Chicken feathers will do just as well.”

* * *

“Can anyone tell me what these are?” Mrs Delver said lying two dead rabbits in the middle of the table while the Delvers were having breakfast.

“They’re conies.”

“Thank you, Martin, I can see that. I’m asking what they were doing in the pantry.”

Jack rose from his seat and examined the bloody neck of one of the rabbits. He ignored the disgusted squeals that erupted from his siblings as he parted the matted hair.

“It’s been shot,” he said.

Rob silently got up and started trying to leave the room while attracting as little attention as possible.

Mr and Mrs Delver were looking at each other, deep frowns engrained on their faces.

“But who’d…” Mr Delver murmered.

Mrs Delver’s eyes suddenly widened with understanding. “Rob!”

He bolted.

The Delver children laughed and whooped as Mrs Delver rushed to the door, crying, “Bordon Delver, you get back here!”


	22. The Other Side of the Door

Meg caught the wheat in the basket, watching as the chaff blew away on the wind. There was a gentle breeze today; good for winnowing. She tossed the wheat up again and caught it easily. After a few more tosses there was no more chaff and she poured the remaining grain into the open sack that stood by the barn door. The contents of her basket filled it, and she tied it closed.

“Maize,” she said, looking at Maizey, who was winnowing her own basket, “help me get it on the cart.”

The lasses heaved the sack onto the handcart. Each took a handle, and they started to pull it towards the granary.

“They’ve gone,” Maizey said, craning her neck to look at the east field.

“Who?”

“The Big Folk.”

Even more Men had been arriving in Bywater over the last few days and a group of them had made camp in the east field. They had churned up the mud with their waggons and chopped down the oak tree. The field, which had been a vibrant green a few days before, was now a dull, washed-out brown.

“They’ll not be gone long,” Meg said. “They’ve left their waggons.”

“Weren’t there three before?” Maizey said. “What happened to the other?”

Eventually they reached the granary. Usually the lads and gaffers who worked on the farm would be milling around. They were still building the new granary, under the instruction of a carpenter from Hobbiton. Today they were all stood around awkwardly and silently. Towering among them were three Men, who walked between the Hobbits as though they weren’t there.

They were talking among themselves in a language Meg had trouble keeping track of. It was Hobbitish, but not Hobbitish. Between them there was a large waggon, heavy with bags of wheat. Leaning against one of the wheels was Ted Sandyman, looking completely at ease with himself and joining in with the Men’s conversation.

“I reckon I know where the third waggon went,” Maizey said under her breath.

Without asking one of the Men came over and took the bags Meg and Maizey had brought, and loaded them on their own waggon.

Maizey’s face went red and Meg touched her arm to try and placate her. “Don’t say anything.”

Maizey glared at Meg; a savage, freckled face framed with dishevelled brown curls. “But where’re they taking it?” she said in a harsh whisper.

“You throwing a fit won’t help matters,” Meg replied in the same tone.

Mr Delver saw them and walked slowly over, eyeing the Men the entire time, as though he were trying to go quietly to avoid their attention.

“You two head back to the barn,” he said as he started lifting the remaining sacks out of the waggon.

“Careful of your back, Dad,” Meg said, grabbing the other side of the bag.

“Don’t mind that. Get yourself an’ your sister away. I don’t want you around these.”

“But, Dad, where’re they taking—” Maizey began.

“It’s not worth asking.” He and Meg heaved the last bag off the cart.

“Right,” one of the Men said. His voice was loud and rough. “We need some to help with removing the tree stumps down by the road. There’s building to be done there.”

“Sorry, sir, but that won’t be possible,” Old Granger said, stepping forward with an air of understated authority. His own assurance that he was in charge was enough that he didn’t have to raise his voice. Mr Sackville-Baggins still hadn’t shown himself on the farm yet, instead relaying his orders through Granger. “No one here works for you. They work for Mr Sackville-Baggins, an’ I’m the one who represents him here. Unless I’m given leave by the farmer, none of these are going with you.”

One of the Men smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile; there was no admiration there. “Brave little Halfling, ain’t you?”

“It’s all good work, Mr Granger,” Sandyman said, walking leisurely towards them with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets. “An’ it’s all work Mr Lotho wants done.”

Granger smiled at him. “With respect, Mr Sandyman, you’re not in charge here. I’m not letting any of these go unless Mr Sackville-Baggins tells me in his own words that he wants that work doing.”

They stared hard at each other for a while, neither wanting to be the one that gave in.

Eventually Sandyman turned away and nodded at Jack. “That one looks useful.”

Mr Delver looked back at Meg. His expression was one of cultivated calm, but his eyes were panicked. “Take your sister back to the barn. Now. Don’t let Poppy come up here without you. When the little’uns come back from collecting wood keep them with you.”

What Meg really wanted was to tell him she was scared. Scared of what exactly, she wasn’t sure, and somehow that made her rising dread all the worse. It was like her world was trickling away from her, slowly. She wasn’t sure what would be left when it was gone completely.

But none of that mattered. There were more important things to do. She took Maizey’s arm and firmly but gently walked her back the way they’d come. Maizey raised her voice in protest, demanding to be allowed back but Meg wasn’t listening. It was her job to protect her siblings and she wasn’t going to fail them.

Better to die than allow that.

* * *

“But what I’m saying,” Dalgo said as he leaned forward in his seat and pressed his hands together, “is that power must be inherently abhorrent.”

“Power is only as abhorrent as the one who wields it,” Monno said dismissively, sipping his brandy. “It’s a tool like any other.”

At the writing desk in the corner Clover was going over a children’s book Abelia had found in some dusty toy box. It only had one sentence on each page, with a black-and-white illustration inexpertly printed above depicting the scene.

_Johnny likes his hoop and stick._

_Jenny likes her apple._

_Johnny takes Jenny’s apple._

Clover smiled to herself as she listened to Dalgo and Monno’s conversation. Somehow discussions on the nature of power were more appealing than Johnny’s exploits, not least of all because Johnny needed a good smack around the head.

“You’re not paying attention,” Abelia hissed.

Clover sighed as she went back to the reading, going over each syllable carefully. But she kept one ear on Dalgo and Monno’s conversation.

“Jenny… st-ah-ruh…”

“Starts,” Abelia said.

“Starts to cr-ee.”

“Cry.”

Clover massaged her forehead. “Couldn’t we try something else?”

“This book’s easy,” Abelia said. “If you can’t manage this you’re not going to be able to read anything else.”

“The intent of the individual doesn’t matter,” Dalgo said, pressing on with his case. “It’s the _potential_ for damage that’s the root of the problem.”

“So you would call, say, a pen inherently abhorrent simply because it could be used to write abhorrent things?”

Abelia threw her head back and groaned. “You two are so dreary. Can’t you just decide who’s right?”

“What do you think, Clover?” Dalgo said, turning his lofty head towards her.

Clover did her best to rein in the smile that was threatening to slip out. Their interactions had been few since their confrontation a little over a week ago, and never venturing beyond the professional. But Dalgo’s tone had been more courteous than before (though in practice this just meant he had moved from open disdain to a detached indifference). “Why would you think I have anything valuable to say, sir?” she said, making sure to look him in the eyes.

“Are you not a person?” he said. “Do you not have a mind to think with, just as I do, just as anyone does?”

They only broke eye contact when Monno was suddenly taken by a coughing fit.

“Are you all right?” Abelia said, watching him worriedly.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Some brandy went down the wrong way.” But he cast Dalgo look of concern. “Could you get me some water, Clover?”

Clover stiffened. Young Mrs Grubb had relieved her of her duties for the day, meaning she was technically a free Hobbit and not obliged to serve him.

The question was whether or not she had the impudence to point this out.

“Yes, sir,” she said and left the room to get him a glass from the kitchen. When she returned she handed it to Monno a bit too abruptly, spilling a little on his breeches.

“Sorry, sir,” she said.

“It’s nothing,” he said, clearing his throat. “Thank you.”

“So what do you think?” Dalgo said, bringing the conversation back to the topic of interest.

Clover returned to her seat at Abelia’s side. “I think the comparison Mr Monno made atween pens and power is a bit…” She tried to find a word that would make her distaste for the metaphor plain, while also making it clear that she would never dream of undermining someone whose intellect and good breeding was so obviously superior to her own. “…Not perfect.”

Monno’s posture changed as he rested his glass on a nearby end table. “How so?” His voice was clipped in a way that suggested he felt affronted but really didn’t want anyone else to know.

Clover shifted on her seat to better face the brothers. “To my mind a pen ain’t powerful in itself. It only acts as a…” She sought for a word to match her thoughts. There was nothing more frustrating that being without the language to give your ideas form. “A path? A sort of a path for it to use…”

“A channel,” Dalgo said.

“Yes.”

“But the skill to use a pen _is_ power,” Monno said, visibly agitated.

“It is,” Clover said as her hackles rose. “But it’s only really power in proportion to the Hobbit, ain’t it? A landlord can write an eviction notice for a family of ten, but if a Hobbit like myself was to put a pen to use what could they do? Write letters to their prenticed son? Keep their master’s books? A pen’s only as powerful as the person what holds it.” She drew a deep breath. “Begging your pardon, sir.” She flickered her eyes towards Dalgo, who was looking at her intently.

“To answer your question, sir; yes, I agree that power is wicked in itself, because people aren’t perfect.”

It took him a moment to respond, and when he did it was only with a silent nod. When he turned to Monno he had an oddly smug expression on his face.

Clover twisted around to return to the book beside the dumbfounded Abelia.

_Johnny tells Jenny he’s sorry._

_Johnny and Jenny are friends again._

“I’m surprised,” Monno said, pouring himself another brandy, “that you are bothering with your studies, given that you have such a low opinion of them.” A smile appeared on his face, but his tone remained tellingly bitter. “I hope Abbie isn’t wasting her time.”

Clover watched over her shoulder, vaguely curious as to how far she could push it. “I’m not learning for power, sir. I’m learning because Miss Abelia kindly offered me, as an act of friendship.” She smiled sweetly at Abelia, “Who am I to refuse such a kindness? I’m only a servant, after all.”

“Either way you’ve squandered your lesson,” Abelia said, glancing at the grandfather clock in the corner. “Didn’t you say something about meeting your friends?”

“Aye. I did,” Clover said as her stomach sank. She had nearly forgotten. She wished she had. “I suppose I’d best be going, then, miss.” She rose and curtseyed, but hesitated where she stood. Dalgo and Monno had gone back to their respective books while Abelia was getting out her water colours.

Clover left the room, shutting the door behind her. She could hear the muffled tones of the family as they resumed their conversation without her. She had thought they might ask her to stay.

But then she had realised that was foolishness.

She was, after all, only a servant.

* * *

“They allowed to do that?” Lavender said. “Just turn up on the land?”

Meg shrugged. “Seems so. It’s Mr Baggins’s land, an’ if he says they can, then they can.”

“They got aught to pay?”

“Don’t know. Wasn’t really in a position to ask.”

Meg, Clover, Maizey and the Hobble sisters had made themselves comfortable around a table in the _Green Dragon_. Lavender and Primrose were the only ones with drinks, though Mr Tavenner was only selling halves at the moment anyway (apparently his delivery from the malt-house had been delayed). Primrose had been nursing hers with the skill of someone who knew it had to last all evening.

Meg had told them about what’d happened on the farm. The argument between Granger, Sandyman and the Men had ended with Jonson, Jack, Rob and a couple of other lads being taken away. Granger had gone with them to keep an eye.

“I don’t like them. The Men, I mean,” Lavender said. “They’re building something down by Bywater Road.”

“Building what?”

“Don’t know.”

“Be interesting to find out,” Maizey said.

“No it bloody won’t.” Lavender shuddered. “I’ve not had peace since they arrived.”

“So where’d they take the wheat?” Clover said, leaning forward in her eagerness to listen. Coming out tonight was worth it for this.

“Dad said not to ask,” Meg said.

“But it’s on the orders on Lotho Sackville-Baggins, right?”

“Don’t know. It’s not my place to know,” Meg said primly.

“But—”

“You heard anything about Chastity Westcott and Artie Cropper?” Meg said.

“All I know,” Lavender said steadily. “Is that Artie ain’t allowed to work on Mr Westcott’s farm no more. But Tansy was livid when last I saw her.”

“But she and our Jonson—”

“I know, but it was Artie that ended it, an’ she said he told _her_ that he didn’t have time for courting, with his mother being ill an’…”

Clover looked forlornly over the inn. She didn’t want to be here. She couldn’t even _try_ to want to be here; it was too far removed from everything she longed for. Maizey didn’t look impressed, either. It was impossible to tell what Primrose was thinking; she was staring blankly at a spot at the centre of the table.

Meg realised it had been a while since Clover last said anything. She smiled and said, “Good day?”

“Aye.”

“How’re you finding working indoors?”

Clover was coming to the realisation that she wasn’t really suited to being in service, but couldn’t bring herself to admit it to anyone (especially Meg) after she had been so adamant that it was what she wanted. Her father would be so disgustingly smug about it.

“Fine,” she said.

“Don’t know why you left,” Maizey muttered. “Think you’re too good for outdoor work?”

“Han’t you ever wanted to be something else? Something different from what our parents were?” Clover said desperately. She was only met with confused faces that stared back at her with wide, innocent eyes.

“No,” Meg said truthfully.

Clover sat back limply in her chair, defeated. They really hadn’t.

“How’re… how’re you finding the family?” Primrose said. She had apparently roused herself for long enough to hear what was being said.

“Fancy some gossip, do you?” Lavender said.

“No,” Primrose said, a little too quickly. “I was just asking. They sounded quite… colourful, from what you said about the interview.”

“They’re all right, if you know how to deal with them,” Clover said, allowing herself a small smile of satisfaction.

“The mistress— I mean the younger Mrs Grubb… She’s not too harsh is she?”

“Not any more’n she needs to be.”

Primrose nodded, and exhaled. “And, um…” She toyed with a lock of hair as she tried too hard to look disinterested. “And the sons?”

Clover raised an eyebrow at this show of indifference. “Nothing special. A bit up themselves.”

“Aren’t they all?” Lavender said with a wry smile.

“Who?”

“Well-born lads.”

“You’re courting one.”

Lavender laughed. “Aye. That’s how I know it’s true.”

“Not all well-born lads are like that,” Primrose said, turning on her sister defensively.

“What’s up with you?” Maizey said, laughing.

“Nothing.” She downed the remainder of her drink in one. “You was saying about the family, Clover?”

“Uh…” Clover tried to gather her thoughts after that odd interlude. “There’s not much more to say.” She frowned. “It’s odd, though. They have all that money and space, but they fight twice as often as we do.”

“Money don’t buy happiness,” Meg said.

“No.” But Clover found her mind drawn automatically back to the Grubbs’ smial. The grandfather clocks, and the paintings, and the books—leather-bound with gold inlay and an infinite number of words between the covers. “But I reckon I’d always be a bit miserable, no matter how I lived. I think I’d rather be rich and miserable than poor and miserable.”

An uncomfortable silence crept over them.

“Good luck to you,” Lavender muttered, taking a draw from her mug.

“Just don’t get too attached to ‘em,” Primrose said to Clover. “Sometimes I think their kind don’t see us as real Hobbits at all. Just things, as exist for their own convenience. That they can’t understand we have eyes to see, and feel things just as strong as them.” Her voice was cracking as she spoke, as though she were going to cry.

Lavender reached across to touch her hand. “Are you all right?” she said seriously. “You said you wanted to come out.”

“I am.” She looked at the Delvers and sighed. “Yesterday me and Mum had to tend a lass who’d been in trouble and taken something to bring her blood on, and it’d made her ill.”

A sickly silence hung over the table. Meg went pale and her hands started twitching.

“Did it work?” Clover said.

“Aye.” Primrose closed her eyes. “But the lass didn’t get better.”

The other four lasses looked at each other, all painfully aware that there was nothing but good fortune between them and the fate of that lass.

“Who?” Maizey said quietly.

Meg winced at Maizey asking such a question, though it had only been echoing her own thoughts.

“I can’t say. Mum said I’d feel better for going out, but I think I’m going to head off. Sorry for all that.”

“You want me to go with you?” Lavender said.

“No. I think I’d like to be alone awhile.”

After the goodbyes the remaining lasses said nothing until Primrose had left.

“I wish I was a lad,” Maizey said

“I wish you’d stop saying that,” Clover said.

“But it’s such a horrible way to die.”

“It’s easily avoided,” Clover said.

“It’s not that simple as that, Clove,” Meg said quietly. “Let’s talk about something else.”

Maizey cradled her head in her hands, her hair tumbling down to hide her face. “I need a drink.”

“I know,” Meg said, putting a hand on her back. “Things’ll get better in the new year.”

“You’ve not been picking up any more coins, then?” Clover said.

Meg’s face was blank with a complete lack of understanding. “What?”

“It was how you paid for the drinks on your birthday.”

Meg immediately went red and her muscles stiffened. It was like watching a pinecone close up to protect itself from the rain. “Oh. Aye.”

“If you’re going to lie, Meg, at least remember what the lie was,” Clover said, unsurprised by either reaction.

Meg glowered at her. Her gaze could have lit a match and for a moment Clover wavered, not sure if she’d gone too far.

“What’re you talking about?” Maizey said.

“Nothing,” Meg said quickly, composing herself, though her complexion was still ruddy. She turned to Lavender, who had wisely chosen to stay out of it. “How’s your Nick?”

“Really, Meg?” Lavender said as she checked Primrose’s mug for any dregs.

“What?”

Lavender turned to Clover. “Our Nick’s half of what she talks about these days. She’s getting to be obsessed, if you ask me.”

“I’m not obsessed.”

Lavender shrugged a shoulder. “Little bit obsessed.”

Clover silenced her ears to the bickering that ensued and started absentmindedly tracing out letters on the table. The inn door opened and Mr Warren walked in. He got a drink and sat down, alone and grim faced. Clover hadn’t seen him since the evening he’d refused to let her go with him to Bag End. Lavender and Meg were still sniping at each other. Without warning Clover found her temper flaring up. Why would anyone want to talk about anything other than the Men? What was gossip about thick-headed tweenagers when there was something huge and terrible lying over the horizon? Could they not see it?

“Did you really drag me out here so I could listen to you mooning over a lad?” Clover snapped.

Meg and Lavender silenced abruptly.

“Drag you out?” Meg said, her eyes wide with anxious perplexity.

Maizey snickered. “What’re you talking about, Clove? You _chose_ to come, it was your idea.”

“Aye. An’ now I’m choosing to take my leave,” Clover said, rising from her chair. “You keep talking about nothing.”

“Clover!” Meg cried, but she was already walking away.

“This was supposed to make up for her missing your birthday,” Meg growled. “I get that she was embarrassed when we went to meet her, but this was supposed to be for you.”

“Why is it that you care more than I do?” Maizey said. She was resting her chin on her hands, and looked completely disengaged from the situation. “I’m honestly not that bothered, Meg. She’s only my third favourite sister.”

“Family’s the most important,” Meg said firmly.

“But is it?” Lavender said, in a tone of voice that made it clear she didn’t think it was.

“Well, it is to me!”

“Aye?” Maizey said, with a wicked grin on her face. “Not Nickon Hobble?”

Lavender snorted.

“That’s it!” Meg stood, fuming. “I’ve had it!”

“I was only joking,” Maizey said.

“I’m not a joke.”

She shut the door of the inn behind her with a slam. The hum of conversation lulled momentarily before rising up again.

“What just happened?” Maizey said.

Lavender only sighed and hung her head in her hands.

Maizey tilted her head back to look at the ceiling. “Ever get the feeling you’re the only sensible person you know?”

* * *

“So what now?” Clover said, standing over Mr Warren with her arms folded.

He looked up to see who was there, only to swear and sag back over his tankard, giving in further to his despair. “It’s you.”

Clover decided this wasn’t important enough to react to, and pulled up a chair to sit beside him. “You tried making a fuss with Sackville-Baggins an’ it’s made no difference. What now?”

“Naught.”

This was the only answer Clover hadn’t been expecting, and it took her too long to recover her wits. “What?”

“We complained and then he brought Men here. We made it worse.”

“So then there’s ways to do it better, right?” Clover said. Mr Warren didn’t respond, still staring into the misty surface of his beer. “They’re taking wheat. We need to figure out if it’s going down south with the leaf, an’ who getting it once it arrives.”

“Lass,” he said wearily, “you need to learn when to leave off.”

She couldn’t believe this. Last time they met it had seemed like he was the only other person who realised something needed to be done. “But they’re taking wheat an’ treating people rough. How can you be content to sit by and do nothing?”

“I’m not content. But for now I don’t know what else there is to do but wait an’ see. We complain again it’ll get worse again. An’ now he’s got half a dozen of the Big Folk around his smial I don’t reckon we’d be able to _get_ to complain to him.”

The injustice of this boiled inside Clover. There was nowhere for the steam to escape. She tightened her hands into fists. “But you can’t just do nothing!”

Mr Warren didn’t respond. Clover cast her eyes around the inn and settled on Ted Sandyman, sat alone. Mr Warren was still lost a haze of apathy; he wasn’t any use for the time being. Clover rose and made her way towards Sandyman without saying goodbye to Warren. As she pulled up a chair to sit beside the miller she glanced into his mug to gauge how much he’d want to talk.

“Why’re you helping the Men?”

He watched her with suspicious eyes as he took a draw from his mug. “And you would be…?”

“I’m no one.”

The corner of his mouth curled into a devious smile. “Why would I talk to no one?”

“Jenny Brown,” Clover said. “Why’ve you started helping ‘em, Mr Sandyman? Or were you made to help ‘em?”

“Not made.”

“What do you get, then?”

“Ah.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Mr Lotho’s got plans, see.”

“What sort of plans?”

“The sort that’s going to make life better for all.” He said this with such a sharp, earnest expression that Clover was momentarily stunned.

“We’ve got no bread,” she said eventually.

“It’ll be better once the new mill’s here. ~~~~

Clover didn’t think the current absence of a mill was the only reason for the lack of bread, but she was curious as to why the old mill had been taken down and what there was to gain by it.

“Do you know aught about the new mill?” Clover said with genuine interest. “What’ll make it different from the old one?”

“You’ll see. It’ll grind wheat twice as fast.”

“But how long ‘til it’s working? An’ what’re we to do afore then?”

Sandyman hesitated in bringing his mug to his lips. “It don’t matter. People need to make sacrifices for progress.”

“But it’s not right!” Clover said, surprised by the volume of her own voice.

Sandyman’s shoulders shook with rough laughter. “You’re talking about what’s right like everything was right last month, or the month before that. You look like a sharp lass. We both know nothing’s ever been right.”

“ _We’ve got no bread_ ,” Clover said again.

Sandyman flitted his eyes over her washed out and many-mended clothes. “Your family never struggled for bread before?”

Clover glared at him, but didn’t dare open her mouth in case of what might happen if she did.

The devious smile returned. “Aye. Things’re going to change. People will be able to get on in life if they’ve got the stomach for it. It won’t matter what their name is. An’ really, lass,” he said, leaning forward conspiratorially, “the old ways never did us any good, so we might as well try something new. Could it really get any worse of us?”

Clover still didn’t speak, partly to see what he would do next.

Sandyman turned away from her and set his mug down heavily. “Garn… If you are sharp you’ll be able to find something in it for yourself.”

This seemed to signal that their conversation was at an end. Clover rose with a rustle of her skirt and walked away as quietly as she could. She wasn’t in the mood to sit back with Lavender and Maizey so she left into the inky night, her mind turning like a millstone.

* * *

It had started drizzling not long after Meg left the inn. By the time she reached the Hobbles’ house her hair hung limply, dripping onto her shoulders.

It was Mrs Hobble who answered the door.

“Meg,” she said, surprised. “Our Rose’s just got back herself, but I’m not sure she’s up to visitors at the moment.”

“Actually, Mrs Hobble, I was wondering if Nick was there, please.”

“He is,” Mrs Hobble said, raising an eyebrow. “You want to come in?”

“I’m all right out here. Thank’ee,” Meg said, looking up. There was a small shelf above the doorway which provided reasonable shelter from the rain.

Mrs Hobble nodded and disappeared inside. Meg was slightly regretting coming here. In particular she regretted the way she’d spoken to the others. She would have to apologise to them later.

The door opened wider and there was Nick—bemused and slightly rumpled. “You all right, lass?” he said.

“D’you want to court me?” Meg blurted.

He blinked in surprise. Noiseless words formed on his lips as he tried to find his response.

“Only I’ve seen nothing of you since we went gathering nettles an’ you kissed me, an’ even then you was acting odd. I thought it might have meaning but mayhap I was mistook, which is no one’s fault but mine, if that’s the case.” She took a breath and kept her voice level as she continued. “I’ve been trying to make sense of it, an’ I can’t. So I’d like you to tell me plain: do you want to court me or not?”

An amused smiled had grown on his mouth while she’d spoken. “Very direct,” he said.

“Unlike you. Don’t avoid the question”

Nickon carefully closed the door behind him and came to join her on the step. He folded his broad arms. “Why’re you chasing someone as inconstant as me?”

Meg huffed a sigh and tried to wipe some of the water off her face. “I don’t know. Probably I’m mad.”

“That’ll probably be it.”

“Aye. You still haven’t answered me. Do you want to court me?”

Meg could tell by his eyes—by the subtle way he had brought his eyebrows together—that he was thinking. This odd, tense moment seemed to go on for a very long time. The look in his eyes shifted to something like regret before fading again. He put his hands in his pockets.

“Aye. I do.”

Meg blinked up at him. She had been building this confrontation up in her mind as she walked and waited. She had expected it to be explosive, but instead it was this strange, quiet little thing.

“Right. Good.” She smiled and put her hands on his chest. “And you’re going to call on us this week or we’re having words.”

“Yes, madam!”

Meg drew herself up and placed a hesitant kiss on his cheek.

It wouldn’t be for several weeks that she’d wonder why it had been hesitant.


	23. Blood to Pay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Do not use any remedies mentioned to treat yourself.

After what had happened in the _Green Dragon_ , Clover felt obliged to visit her family the following Friday. Having had a few days to cool off she’d realised there had been something about Meg’s demeanour that night that put her on edge. This unease didn’t lift when she saw the state of East Warren Lane. Most of the birch trees had been cut down, the road was scarred with deep ruts, and what ground was left was covered in large boot-prints that had trodden down the grass and left the road a muddy mess.

A gang of Men were loitering at the entrance of the lane, smoking and talking in deep, harsh voices. Clover slipped past them, unnoticed.

She hesitated by the gate. Rob was scrabbling about in the garden among the chickens, putting handfuls of something in his pocket. He instantly froze when he saw her.

“Clover,” he said, and nodded.

“Rob.”

He put his hands in his pockets and slunk away, not meeting Clover’s eyes. She decided not to ask.

Clover winced as she stepped inside the smial. There were at least three different conversations going on, and one of them wasn’t very happy. Even so, she could tell most of the family weren’t in. She went to the kitchen, where the most sedate conversation was taking place, and stopped as she laid eyes on Nickon Hobble.

“Clover,” he said, and lifted his cup to her.

Meg was sat across from him, twirling thick locks of hair around her fingers. She smiled at her. “Hello, Clove.”

In addition to the couple, Jack was leaning against a wall with his arms folded and a face like thunder. His only greeting was a sullen glance in her direction.

“Hello…” Clover said, casting Nick and Jack wary looks. “Can I talk to you, Meg? In private.”

“About what?”

She sighed. “I was going to apologise for the other night. I was a bit out of sorts…”

“I don’t mind,” Meg said brightly.

“But Maizey told us about it after she came back,” Jack said. “Dad says you’ve betrayed your roots.”

“Oh good,” Clover said as she helped herself to tea. “Where is the old windbag?”

“At market with Mum an’ the little’uns,” Meg said. “Jonson’s out… somewhere.”

“Snowdrop Hayden last I heard,” Nickon said.

Clover nodded and went to stand beside Jack, sipping from her cup. “How’s your Primrose?

“All right, I think.”

“She was upset last I saw her.”

He shrugged. “She’s sturdier than people think.”

“She don’t need you to thrash her suitors for her, then?” Meg said with a grin.

“Nah. Gives me more time to thrash yours,” Nick said, repaying her smile in kind as Meg laughed.

“Sickening, ain’t it?” Jack whispered into Clover’s ear.

She elected not to reply to this, instead looking to Meg and Nick. “You two courting, then?”

“Aye,” Nickon said.

Clover nodded. “Well, just so’s you know: she wants dahlias for the proposal, a June wedding, an’ at least five little’uns.”

Nickon froze as Meg’s face turned crimson.

“Sorry, lass,” Clover said. “Couldn’t resist.”

“With me?” Nick said. His expression suggested he’d only just caught up with the conversation.

“No!” Meg said.

“All right, no need to be like that about it.”

“No…” Meg groaned and bowed her head forward. Her hair fell over her shoulders and shielded her face from the others.

Clover decided it was time to have mercy. “It’s just something she said years ago when we was little. No need to get worried, Nick.”

Meg raised her head up. It was roughly the same colour as a cranberry. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“What’s that noise?” Jack said. His head was tilted to one side, listening.

“It’s just Hender and Poppy arguing,” Meg said. “They’ll be fine.”

Clover looked askance at her sister. That wasn’t at all like Meg.

“No… It’s not that…”

The four Hobbits listened. Over the sound of Hender and Poppy shouting about who said what to who’s friends, and the excited chattering of Maizey and Myrtle in the lasses’ room, the could just about hear a rhythmic thudding noise.

“That’s an axe,” Nick said.

Meg’s stomach fell away. The sound was close. And she was the only one who could go to see what was wrong.

“It’ll be nothing,” she said, endeavouring to remain as calm as possible. Jack and Clover didn’t look convinced. “But I’ll go an’ see, just to put your minds at rest.”

The sound got louder as she neared the front door. When she opened it her heart palpitated.

Two men were stood in the front garden. One of them was taking an axe to the chestnut tree while the other watched, arms crossed. A third Man was sat on a waggon parked just outside the smial.

Meg swallowed. She would have felt safer if her parents were in. But they weren’t. There was only her. They probably wouldn’t blame her if she went back inside now. But she should probably do something. This was their home…

“Um… Excuse me.”

If the woodman heard her he made a point not to show it. But the Man on the lawn turned around and looked at her like she was something he’d found on his boot.

“Yes?”

“Why’re you chopping down the tree? Did Mr Goodenough send you?”

“That’s no business of yours,” the Man said before putting his pipe in his mouth and turning away.

He was so matter-of-fact about it, like she was the one being unreasonable. It was unnerving.

“Only he din’t say nothing about getting rid of the tree when Dad last saw him,” Meg said. “And Mr Goodenough usually tells us if aught’s being done, an’ it’s his property, so if he din’t send you—”

“Make it shut up, Hal,” the Man in the waggon said wearily.

Her mouth froze, open in mid-sentence. Pressing the issue wouldn’t do any good. The best would be to let it go for now. She was getting the sense that the longer she engaged with them, the longer she was putting her family in danger. She started to shut the door.

“Meg?” Jack’s approaching voice said from within.

Meg turned just as he pushed past her and marched up to the Men.

“Oi! What’re you doing with the tree?”

“Jack, don’t!” Meg said but found herself paralyzed on the doorstep.

“What’s happening?” Nick said as he came to stand beside her. When he saw Jack with the Men he paled. “Oh no…”

He rushed towards Jack, not giving Meg a glance, and put a hand on his arm. “Jack, leave off.”

But Jack jerked his arm away. “I’m master of this smial while my father and brother are out,” he said, and turned his glowering face to the Men, “an’ I’m telling you to leave.”

The Man with the pipe laughed. “Good luck to you, little master.”

The washing line snapped as the tree fell. It landed with a creaking thud that crushed a section of the fence and sent the chickens running in all directions.

“You can’t do that!” Jack cried, and it was only the strong hand Nick had put on his arm that stopped him from rushing forward.

The woodman said something in another language that made the other two Men laugh, and Jack went red in the face.

“Lad,” Nickon said softly. “There’re better ways to go about it.”

The Man on the waggon jumped down and started to help the other two load the tree on board.

“ _No_.” Jack brushed Nick’s hand away and ran forward. He grabbed at one of the branches as the tree was dragged away. “It’s not yours. You’ve got no right—”

One of the woodman halted in his work, and with absolute calm, hit Jack in the face with the butt of his axe.

“Jack!” Meg’s senses returned to her as suddenly and sharply as if she’d been plunged into cold water. She ran to him as he fell to the ground and helped him to sit up. He kept a hand over his nose, and she started fishing in her pocket for a handkerchief.

Nick’s face was pallid with rage and he grasped the handle of the axe. The Man tried to tug it out, and was surprised when it didn’t move from Nick’s white-knuckled grip. “I’m pretty handy with an axe myself,” Nickon said in a low, guttural growl. “You try anything like that again an’ there’ll be blood to pay.”

“Leave it, Nick” Meg said, holding her handkerchief to Jack’s nose. “Please.”

The Man pulled the axe out of Nick’s grip. “It’ll not be mine, little master,” he said, and moved to help the others heave the tree onto the waggon.

Nickon reluctantly turned away and went to help Meg get Jack inside. Clover, Maizey and a cluster of younger Delvers were stood watching in the doorway. They instinctively parted to let Meg, Jack and Nick through.

“What do I do?” Hender said.

“Nothing,” Meg said firmly as she walked past. “That’s you too, Maizey. Close the door, Clover. I’m not having anyone going out there again.”

She and Nickon sat Jack down in the kitchen while the others hung aimlessly around the door, watching the scene.

“Tilt your head back,” Nick said.

“It’s forward,” Meg said absentmindedly, pulling a chair up as she removed the handkerchief to see what the state of his nose was.

“Thought it was back,” Jack said hoarsely.

“Not unless you like swallowing your own blood. Anyone have a fresh kerchief?”

Clover hurried forward. “Here.”

“Cheers…” Meg abandoned her own bloodied handkerchief on the table.

“Is it broken?” Myrtle said quietly.

Meg looked over at the frightened faces in the doorway. “Why don’t you take the little’uns through to the parlour, Clove?”

“Aye. Come on.” She started to guide them out of the kitchen, holding her arms out like she was herding sheep.

“I’m not a little’un,” Hender muttered.

“That so? Well, you can tell me all about it in the parlour.”

When they had gone Jack turned his eyes to Meg. “ _Is_ it broken?”

She sighed. “Don’t know. Would you like some willow bark to chew?”

“Please.”

Jack held the handkerchief to his nose as Meg searched through the cupboards for the medicine box. Nickon stood over him with folded arms.

“You’re an idiot,” Nick said.

“I know.”

“You’re an idiot!”

“I _know_!”

Meg found the box and opened it. There wasn’t any bark left. Her heart sunk. “Sorry, lad. Looks like we’ve run out…” She didn’t want to send anyone out for more until she was sure it was safe. “I think you’ll have to do without for a bit.”

Jack groaned.

“You brought it on yourself,” Nickon said. “Bloody hot-head.”

“I had to do something,” Jack said. “That tree’s always been there. It’s _stealing_.”

Meg shut the box with a snap. “Stop it.” She went to Jack and tentatively removed the handkerchief to examine his nose again. The bleeding was slowing. “I wish you han’t done that…” she murmured as she tried to dab away some of the blood. “There’s lots of trees. Only one of you.”

Jack rolled his eyes at this.

The front door opened. “What’s happened? Is everyone all right?” It was Mr Delver’s voice.

The relief was like rain on a windless summer day in the fields. “We’re in here, Dad. Jack’s got a bloody nose.”

There was a sudden rush of footfall and her mother was in the kitchen a moment later. “Oh, my babe,” she said, dropping her basket on the table and hurrying to Jack.

“I’m fine, Mum,” he grumbled as she took the handkerchief from him to see the damage.

“Lawks!” Danny said. He, Fastad and Martin were stood in the doorway. There was a look of delighted fascination on his face. “How’d you get that, Jack?”

“Oi. Away with you,” Mr Delver said, ushering them away from the door as he came into the kitchen. “Jack don’t want you gawping at ‘im.”

“How bad is it, Mum?” Meg said.

“Not sure. We’ll need the pellar, I think,” Mrs Delver murmured, gently touching Jack’s nose. “What happened?”

Meg told them about the Men. When she had finished she saw her father’s face was grim.

“Jon,” Mrs Delver said, submerging a cloth in water, “don’t do anything rash.”

“I’ll give ‘em torture.”

“No,” she said patiently and pressed the cloth to Jack’s nose. “First you’re going to fetch the pellar to tend our son, and then you’re going to see Mr Goodenough to tell him what’s happened.”

“Jack’s _bleeding_. D’you expect me to do nothing?”

“I expect you to be sensible and fetch the pellar _._ I don’t want another invalid. If it is broke we might need to send for Mr Brownlock.”

“We can’t afford him.”

“Baggins’ll pay,” Nickon said.

Mr Delver, Mrs Delver and Meg all turned to him in silent surprise.

“What?” Mr Delver said.

“For the doctor. Mr Sackville-Baggins has been giving coin in recompense for trouble the Men cause,” Nick said. “They pulled up some of Farmer Yardley’s hedges, an’ Mr Sackville-Baggins paid ‘im when he complained.”

“Why him?” Meg said. “Mr Baggins, I mean.”

“Everyone knows it’s him the Men work for,” Clover said, stepping through to the kitchen. “How is he?”

“Bloody annoyed at being talked over,” Jack said, sniffing and dabbing at his nose as the.

“‘Bloody’ is right.”

“Very funny, Clover,” her father sighed.

“Why’re you still here?” Mrs Delver said, looking at her husband. “You’re meant to be sending for the doctor.”

“We’re not accepting any charity.”

Mrs Delver groaned. “Jon—”

“This ain’t right, an’ no amount of gold’ll change that,” Mr Delver said firmly. “I’ll tell Mr Goodenough what’s happened with the tree, an’ it’s up to him what he does about that. An’ I’ll give our complaints to Mr _Sackville-Baggins_ —” he said the name with the tone of mocking disgust he only used to described the airs of the uppers “—But I’ll not accept aught he offers.”

“Jon…”

“I’ll not grovel to anyone, Joy, no matter what his name is.”

Mrs Delver smiled blandly. “As you say, love. Now run along to Mr Goodenough’s. I’ll send one of these for the pellar.”

He seemed startled by this. “Aye. Right. You don’t mind?”

“No. I’m your wife, an’ I’ll do as you bid me.”

“Yes. Right. Well. I’ll be off, then.”

As soon as he’d gone Mrs Delver got to work. “Nick, be a love an’ send for Mr Brownlock, would you? I’m going to Hobbiton to see Mr Bagville, or whatever he calls himself.”

Clover raised her eyebrows. “But Dad said—”

“I know what he said. But the way I see it we’ve got a dozen mouths to feed, no money, an’ I’ve just lost my good washing line. I’m not too proud to beg if it’ll put bread in my children’s mouths.”

Clover was struck by the realisation that, in some ways, she was very like her mother. “Can I go?”

Mrs Delver frowned at her. “What for, lass?”

Clover shrugged. “There’s Men about. Someone needs to mind you.”

Her mother grinned. “All right then.”

Clover went to get her cloak. She was curious about this Mr Sackville-Baggins. His name seemed to be everywhere these days.

Meg had been looking down at her lap for the last few minutes, lost in deep thought. Mrs Delver put a hand on her shoulder. “You’ll be all right here ‘til Mr Brownlock comes?”

“Yes.” She blinked up at her mother. “It don’t seem right. How can you put an amount of gold on Jack’s blood?”

Mrs Delver turned her eyes to Jack. “What do you want me to do?”

Jack scowled through the bloodied handkerchief. “Get whatever you can.”

* * *

“I can’t think how awful I look,” Mrs Delver said, trying to push her fringe out of her face. “I din’t brush my hair afore coming out. Does the hat cover it?”

Clover smiled slightly. Her mother had put on her best hat to see Mr Sackville-Baggins. They had managed to catch a lift up to Hobbiton on the back of a hay waggon, which Mrs Delver thought was highly undignified, but had relented to when she weighed it against the alternative of walking the whole way. Now they were stood on the front step of Bag End, waiting for someone to open the door.

“It’s fine, Mum. Show’s you’re a hard worker.”

Mrs Delver scowled. “Thank you, Clover.”

“Should I ring the bell again?” Clover said.

She was reaching for the bell rope when the door opened.

There was nothing very impressive about Lotho Sackville-Baggins. Of average height and build, it was completely possible that Clover had passed him in the street without noticing. The only thing even a little unusual about him was his hair, which was golden. Clover had expected more; someone of impressive height, a quick eye or noble baring. That seemed more right somehow.

But no. He was a completely ordinary person of flesh and bone.

“Can I help you?” he said, glancing from mother to daughter with an expression that said he very much hoped he couldn’t.

“I’ve come about recompense,” Mrs Delver said. “We’ve had a visit from some Men, an’ I was told you would pay for aught that was damaged.”

A patronising smile spread across his face. “Yes. I see. Do come in, Mistress…?”

“Mrs Jolson Delver,” she said primly. “That shan’t be necessary, thank you.”

Clover raised an eyebrow at the sudden change in her mother’s speech. The attempts at refinement were mangled by her country accent.

_That’s not the way to do it, Mum…_

His smiled remained, and a cold irritation entered his eyes. “I see. And you own the property, do you?” he said in a tone usually reserved for young children.

Mrs Delver bristled. “My husband’s gone to see our landlord, an’ I’m sure you’ll be hearing from him presently. But one of the ruffians dealt my son a nasty blow. We’ll need to send for Mr Brownlock, and I’m here cus’ we were informed you might be able to pay for his service.”

Clover relaxed slightly. At least her mother had been wise enough not to tell him the doctor had already been sent for.

“Oh dear,” Lotho said in a disinterested voice. “I’ll certainly pay the good doctor for you, if you’re unable to provide for your children yourself.”

“He might be off work a few days,” Clover said, before Mrs Delver had a chance to respond.

Lotho glanced at her as though only noticing her for the first time. “And how would you know that if the doctor hasn’t been yet…? I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Clover Delver at your service, sir,” she said, giving a little curtsey. “It’d be awful for us to be a-fretting over whether we’ll make ends meet this week if our Jack don’t manage to get ‘imself to work. The family works down on the farm as used to belong to Mr Boffin afore you took it over, an’ we’re a good, honest working family what always do our best to serve our gracious masters. If you could find it in your heart to give us some assurance—”

“Yes, yes,” Lotho said irritably. “Look.” He held out a handful of coins. “Is this sufficient?”

“Oh, thank’ee, sir, that’s right kind of you, sir, that is,” Clover said, taking the coins and trying to hide her glee. “You’re a proper gentlehobbit, you ar—”

“Yes, all right. Is there anything else, or might I be allowed to return to my business?”

Clover turned to Mrs Delver. “Mum?”

Her mother seemed to have lost track of things slightly, but drew herself up now. “They broke our washing line. I’ll need a new one.”

Lotho scowled and dug in his pocket. “There.” He pushed a handful of coppers into Mrs Delver’s palm. “Good day.” And he shut the door.

Clover glanced at Mrs Delver. “You happy with that?”

“Aye.”

They started to walk back down the path in silence.

“That,” Mrs Delver said eventually, “was a bit much.”

Clover shrugged. “You were a bit much in the other direction. I was just balancing things out.”

* * *

“It’s broke, then?” Meg said, watching concernedly as Mr Brownlock gently palpitated Jack’s nose. The bleeding had stopped now, but Meg could see the sore flesh underneath the smears of blood.

“I believe so,” Mr Brownlock said. He started moving his finger from right to left and watching how Jack’s eyes followed. “Are you having any trouble breathing?”

“No,” Jack groaned.

“Does your head hurt at all?”

“No.”

“Jolly good,” Mr Brownlock stood up straight, reached into his leather bag and set two bottles on the table. “This should help with the pain. One dose now and one for if you have trouble sleeping.”

Jack immediately downed one of the bottles.

Mr Brownlock raised an eyebrow. “Quite. Try to avoid any heavy work for the next few days. Send for me if things get worse.”

Meg heaved a sigh. “Aye. I remember from when Rob got his nose broke.”

Mr Brownlock shut his bag with a snap. “Might I ask about payment? Ordinarily I would charge four and six for the medicines and house call, but given your family’s situation…” He cast a cursory glance around the kitchen. “I’m willing to drop to four shilling.”

Meg tried to smile. “That’s very kind, sir. Uh…”

She went to the large jar on the side where the Delvers usually kept what spare income they had. She tipped the contents on the table.

“There’s two and eight here,” she said, counting through the pennies and farthings as quickly as she could. “I’m sure Mum’ll be back soon. Would you like some tea in the meantime?”

The doctor brought out his pocket watch. “I need to be on my way.”

Nickon had been sat on a table watching, but now he stood and put a hand in his pocket. “I’ve got a shilling here. That only leaves four pence.”

“It will do for now,” Mr Brownlock said, pocketing the shilling. “I can drop by later to settle the rest. I’m only doing this once, mind.”

Meg saw the doctor out, vaguely wondering if he could give her anything for the headache she was developing. When she returned to the kitchen Jack and Nick were talking in hushed tones.

Nickon placed a tender hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Please don’t do that again.”

“Don’t get soft,” Jack said, brushing his hand off. “I know what you’re doing, an’ I don’t like it.”

“Feeling any better?” Meg said as she walked into the room.

“A little,” Jack said, standing up, a little unsteadily. “I think I’ll have a lie down.”

“All right,” Nick said, looking after Jack as he left. “Take care of yourself.”

Jack sloped off to the lads’ room without saying anything.

Meg approached Nick and rested her hand on his arm. “You din’t have to do that.”

He shrugged. “I wanted to.”

Meg sat on the table and let out a long sigh. “Thank you.”

The door opened and Meg immediately snapped out of her stupor. “Are you all right, Mum? Did you get the money?”

“I’m not your mother,” Mr Delver said, coming into view. “Gone up to Bag End, has she?”

“Uh…” Meg twisted her fingers together, embarrassed at having given away her mother’s plan. “Aye.”

He sighed. “Reckoned she might. Ah, well.” There was a very slight, fond smile on his lips; the kind made of forty years of loving companionship. “Where’s the lad?”

“Went for a rest. What did Mr Goodenough say?”

“He was amiable enough. Said he’d send supplies for us to fix the fence. He din’t seem surprised when I told him what happened.” He frowned. “Not sure what to think of that. How’s it been here? You’ve not had any more trouble?”

“No.”

He nodded and looked at Nickon. “Thank’ee for staying.”

“Not a problem, Mr Delver,” he mumbled. “But I’ll be on my way now.”

“Oh…” Meg trailed after Nick into the corridor, worrying her fingers. “I’m sorry today’s been… like this.”

“Don’t be. I’m glad I was here.”

“When will I see you next?”

“I’ll let you know,” he said. Then he was gone.

When Meg returned to the kitchen Mr Delver had poured himself a cup of tea.

“It’ll be cold by now,” Meg said.

“Oh, aye. But there’s no point wasting fuel for another pot,” he said.

“Dad, I’m sorry,” Meg said.

He raised his eyebrows. “What for, lass?”

“I should’ve stopped Jack from going out an’ confronting ‘em. Now he’s hurt an’ it’s my fault, an’ he couldn’t even have any willow bark because I used it all when I was sick.”

“Jack’s not a faunt. He made a choice to do a foolish thing. You’re not to blame for that, an’ you couldn’t help getting sick neither.” He sighed. “You dealt with it well, I’m proud of you. Would you like some cold tea?”

Meg didn’t say anything. She wanted to tell him that she’d been scared the whole time. More than that, she’d been scared for weeks now and it was exhausting. It felt like the world was going rotten.

The door opened, and there was a rush of children.

“Jack told us to get out of our room or he’d throttle us,” Martin said cheerfully as he eased himself up onto his father’s knee.

“Did he now? I’ll give him a talking to later,” Mr Delver said, running a hand over Martin’s floppy brown hair.

“Who’d like to help me make bread?” Meg said cheerfully as she pushed her concerns to the back of her mind. The scarcity of flour had caused the price of bread to increase, compelling the Delvers to make their own on a more regular basis.

She retrieved a bucket from the corner and offered it to the twins. “You two can get some water while me an’ Martin put the food away.”

The twins shifted nervously and Fastad inched closer to their father. “What if we meet the Big Folk?” he said in a quiet voice.

Meg did her best to keep the smile on her face, while Mr Delver put a hand on Fastad’s shoulder.

“You don’t need to worry about that. We’ll keep you safe,” Mr Delver said.

“I’ll get the water,” Meg said, taking the bucket and going to the door. “See? There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Her father called after her as she left, but she didn’t pause. She couldn’t let the children know she was afraid.

The garden was covered with evidence of the altercation. The grass on the lawn had been crushed and dragged by the tree and the loose, broken planks that had made up the fence leaned against each other sadly. As she left the garden she did her best not to look at the fresh tree stump.


	24. All a Bit Tangled

_To My Dear Family,_

_A few days after I sent my last letter, Brandy Hall received word that Men had crossed the Brandywine Bridge and were travelling west._

_The Thain is keeping us here, though he and the Master are at something of an impasse. Saradoc won’t continue with the search for their heirs, as (from what I gather) he doesn’t want to endanger more of his people by sending Hobbits beyond the High Hay. But Paladin still wants news of his son and is refusing to give up on the search, though I feel the likelihood of them being found now is slim to impossible. For now we cannot leave until Theodand and all have returned from Bree-land._

_Paladin has sent word to his wife via Quick-Post to check the state of Tookland, but as of writing we have not heard anything. He has also sent his daughter and Aldebald’s party back in case there is urgent need._

_I hope this letter reaches you soon, and think of you all constantly. Please send me assurance you are all well as quickly as you can._

_Yours,_

_Father_

* * *

Tiger Lily was sat on her nest of roots beneath the oak tree when she saw Rob approaching. When he was close enough to make out his expression she did her best to smile. They kissed in greeting before he settled back on the roots with her. The sun lent golden tones to his lustrous curls.

“How was work?” Tiger Lily said.

“Mm… All right.” His expression soured.

“What’s wrong?”

“My back hurts a bit is all.”

“Oh… Is there anything I can do?”

He snickered as he rubbed his shoulder. “No. It’s just the axe is heavy. You don’t look that happy yourself.”

She sighed and shook her head. “It’s just Father. We got a letter from him today. He’s fine but he’s worried about us.”

Rob squeezed her hand and frowned thoughtfully. Then something seemed to occur to him because his expression lifted and he started rummaging in his trouser pocket. “I’ve got something for you.”

“Oh.” Tiger Lily twisted the fabric of her skirt guiltily. “That’s very kind… But I wish you hadn’t.”

He shook his head. “Hold out your hands.”

She did as he asked, and he placed a bundle of battered, dirty feathers into her cupped hands. Tiger Lily’s mouth hung open but there weren’t any words. When she had entered into a courtship _this_ wasn’t something she’d anticipated. Why had he done this? What did he want her to _say_?

“They’re for your arrows,” he said smiling hopefully. “I collected ‘em from our chickens.”

Tiger Lily smiled as understanding washed over her. “Oh! Oh, I see.”

“They’re all right, ain’t they?” he said worriedly.

“Yes, they’re lovely. Thank you.” She hurriedly stuffed them in her pocket; not sure what else to do with them for the time being. Tiger Lily stood and brushed down the back of her skirt. “Shall we go? Or since your back’s hurting would you rather we just find somewhere else to sit?”

“No. We need the money.” He got stiffly to his feet. “An’ if I’m not there to help then it’s charity.”

Tiger Lily had received strict instructions through Rob that there were to be no more rabbits left in the Delvers’ parlour, so instead they had worked out a system where they split Tiger Lily’s kills between them and Rob would sell his share to the local butcher. Then he could put the profits in the Delvers’ spare money jar and no one but them would know.

Tiger Lily didn’t know how long this arrangement could last for, but for today she took up her bow and walked away with him, all worries about the future banished.

* * *

“Not gone out with your mother?” Old Mrs Grubb said as she wheeled herself into the parlour.

“No,” Dalgo said, not looking up from his book. “Someone needs to make sure you don’t get into trouble.”

His grandmother huffed as she parked herself across from his armchair. “Cheeky little bugger.”

Clover was pretending not to listen as she dusted the bookshelves. Young Mrs Grubb had gone to dinner with the Diggles at Number 2 North Bank Row. She had asked Dalgo to come, given that he was well past being of age and the master of their smial, but he had declined. Emphatically.

“When did you last go on a social call?” Old Mrs Grubb said.

“I don’t remember.”

“You won’t find a wife in your books, my lad.”

A look of distaste plucked at the corner of Dalgo’s mouth. “I’m not looking for a wife.”

“You should be. By the time I was your age I was married and expecting your father.”

Dalgo didn’t look up from his book as he took a sip of wine. “I know, you’ve told me. Many times.”

Clover snorted, and did her best to hide it with a cough. The Grubbs didn’t seem to notice.

“You can’t put it off forever,” Old Mrs Grubb said. “People get married. It’s what they do.”

“Not me,” he said, taking some more wine. “I’m a modern.”

“Well, if being a modern means staying at home every day and making yourself miserable, I think you’ve got it down perfectly.”

Dalgo set his glass down with a _clink_ and said nothing.

“You’re not talking to me now?” his grandmother said.

“Would you like me to help you to bed, Mrs Grubb?” Clover said, stuffing the dusting rag in her pocket. “I don’t have long left afore Mistress Campanula said I could retire myself.”

Old Mrs Grubb sighed. “Very well. There’s no point in staying up if Abelia’s locked herself away and this one’s ignoring me.”

Clover wheeled Old Mrs Grubb into her bedroom and helped her change into her nightgown. She took the weight of Old Mrs Grubb’s right arm as the old lady lowered herself into the bed. “Is there anything else I can do, madam?” Clover said as she bent down to lift Mrs Grubb’s legs onto the bed after her.

“I think not.” Mrs Grubb settled herself back on the pillows and pulled the quilt up. “I’ll give the bell a good ring if I need anything. Give an old lady some peace.”

A light giddiness bubbled up inside as Clover left the room. While helping Old Mrs Grubb she had heard Abelia leave her own bedroom. Clover went to retrieve her notebook and the children’s picture book the young mistress had lent her. She purposely left the door open. It was usually Young Mrs Grubb who assisted Mistress Victoria when she needed aid in the night (hence why they shared a chamber, though the beds were as far apart as they could physically be and there was a curtain to separate them).

As Clover approached the parlour she could hear the conversation Dalgo and Abelia were having.

“Be back by ten at the very latest,” Dalgo said. He was leaning back lazily in his chair, in his usual pose with one long leg crossed over the other.

“I’ll stay out for as long as I like,” Abelia muttered. She was stood in front of the mirror that hung above the fireplace and turned her head as she put her earrings in.

“You’ll be home by ten if you wish to remain unencumbered by me,” Dalgo said. When Abelia shot him a glare he grinned humourlessly. “I could accompany you this evening, if you wish.”

Clover cleared her throat, deciding that if they weren’t going to notice her she would have to draw attention to herself. Abelia turned her head sharply towards her.

“Did you need any help with Grandmother?” she said.

“No, miss. Just that you said you’d help me with my letters this evening…”

Abelia’s eyes widened in panic. “Oh, I forgot! I’m going out with Rico and Opal. You don’t mind, do you?”

Clover’s stomach sank. “No, miss. Sorry, miss.”

“It’s not acceptable for you to disregard a social arrangement,” Dalgo said, scowling.

“It’s just Clover.”

“I don’t care if it’s just Clover.”

“I forgot! I’m _sorry_!” Abelia shouted before storming out. The front door slammed a few seconds later.

“What’s going on out there?” Old Mrs Grubb called from the other room.

“Nothing, Grandmother. Go back to sleep,” Dalgo replied. “I apologise for Abelia,” he said to Clover.

Clover turned her face to the ground to hide her disappointment. She couldn’t bare for him to see her when she was weak. “Thank’ee, Mr Grubb.”

“Monno’s out,” Dalgo said, thumbing at his page. “One of his usual evening excursions. He says the night air agrees with him, but I suspect he just wants to get away from me.”

Clover stayed tactfully silent.

He turned his dark eyes towards her. “That leaves you and me alone.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That is, of course, unless you have another engagement.”

Clover picked at the corner of the notebook. “No, sir.”

His expression changed slightly. He unfolded himself like a spider and stood at his full, impressive height. “My study would be more conducive to learning, I think. I imagine it’s rather difficult for two to sit at the desk in here, with it being tucked away in the corner.”

He took a candle and walked past her into the corridor. He held the door to his study open, looking back at her expectantly.

“Sir?”

“Would you or would you not like a lesson this evening?” Dalgo said.

Without another word Clover followed him in, holding her books to her chest. She set them down on the desk as Dalgo sat in his chair.

“Bring the other chair around,” he said.

She did so while he thumbed through the children’s book, a look of disdain on his face.

“I remember these,” he muttered, and glanced at Clover. “Dismal, aren’t they?”

“It was a gift, kindly given by Miss Abelia,” Clover said levelly as she sat beside him.

Dalgo cocked an eyebrow, and a stirring of amusement flickered across his face. “Very diplomatic. But I suspect that Abelia’s teaching methods are somewhat lacking.”

“She’s got good intentions,” Clover said softly.

“I don’t doubt it,” Dalgo said. He opened a drawer to his desk and started to rummage around. “Good intentions are admirable. Very sweet. But if they don’t produce anything of substance then they don’t count for much.”

“I think they count for a great deal, sir. I hope you’ll forgive me for disagreeing.”

“Certainly.” He produced a small, battered book from the drawer. “How well can you recognise different letters? Are you able to make out any whole words?”

“I can read ‘the’ and ‘and’. Not many others.” She twisted her fingers together, suddenly feeling inferior. “I can read all the letters…”

“Perfectly?”

“I get some of ‘em mixed up,” she said very quietly. “An’ I can’t always remember which ones go together to make different sounds.”

“I don’t know why you look so ashamed,” Dalgo said. “That’s good progress considering how recently you took up your studies. And that, Miss Delver, is why children’s books do not suit you.”

Clover tried not to react to this new form of address. Dalgo drew no attention to it either, but opened the little book. She frowned at the wall of text that greeted her on the pages.

“That’s lots of words,” she said uncertainly.

“It’s not as difficult as it looks. The language is simple enough.”

“What is it?”

“It’s about the history of Buckland.”

Clover raised an eyebrow. “Why’d you have that in your desk?”

“I get bored on occasion.”

At this answer she had to purse her lips to prevent herself from smiling, but Dalgo must have noticed because his mouth twitched.

“I happen to know that until very recently Monno kept a leaf jar in his desk. And brandy on bad days. I think a history book is fairly benign in comparison. Stop stalling. ”

Clover cast him a sharp glance at this. Maybe he understood her better than she thought…

“Focus on one word at a time.” He placed his finger at the top of the first page.

Clover let out a sigh, sensing that she was going to make a fool of herself. “Uh… n… tuh… ih… luh.”

“Un-til,” Dalgo said, moving his finger to point out the different sounds. His speech was slow, but not patronising.

“Un-til. The.” She frowned at the next word. “Buh… ruh… ah… n…” She stopped, and looked ashamedly at Dalgo as her face became hot. She felt like a child. “Is that a duh or a buh?” she said.

“Duh.”

“Duh… yuh…”

“Ee,” Dalgo said. “Brand-y-bucks.”

They went through the book together, Dalgo deliberately pronouncing each syllable along with Clover as he pointed them out on the page. Eventually they reached the bottom and started on the next block of words. And then the next, and the next. It wasn’t until Clover looked up from the book, bleary-eyed, that she realised how much the candle had burnt down.

“Could we stop for a bit?” she said, closing her eyes and pressing her fingers to her lids.

“As you wish.” Dalgo set the book aside without further comment.

Clover looked around the room to allow her eyes to re-adjust, still not being used to staring at something so close or fine for such a length of time.

“Do you find the subject matter more engaging?” Dalgo said.

The book had gone over Buckland’s occupation by the Stoors and the Oldbucks and the various debates over whether it was officially part of the Shire. While it was more engaging than the children’s book, that wasn’t saying a much and Clover couldn’t say she found this new book interesting.

“I do,” she said

Dalgo nodded, and again one of his elusive smiles touched his face. “I remember I found those old picture books dull. Father read his history books with me, and I learned that way.”

He turned his head slightly, and Clover followed his gaze to the portrait on the wall. The subject looked to be in his fifties or sixties and his expression was severe. Though his skin was paler and his hair darker than the other Grubbs, there were certain other features that were familiar to her: Abelia’s nose, Monno’s eyes, Dalgo’s jawline…

She looked back at Dalgo and found there was a tenderness in his expression that she had never seen before. “You look like him,” she said.

“I hope so…” Dalgo murmured. “He was the sharpest person I knew. The best of Hobbits.” He looked at her earnestly. “Some people said he was harsh. He wasn’t. He had certain standards, that’s all.”

Clover didn’t have the nerve to say anything more than, “Yes, sir.”

Dalgo didn’t seem motivated to continue, and Clover wasn’t sure what more she could say along those lines. But the silence was unnerving, and she had to fill it with something. It could also be a good opportunity to gain some useful information.

“Why are you interested in Buckland, sir? Do you have family out there? Brandybucks?”

“None that I know of…” he said, raising an eyebrow.

She smiled, trying to look unconcerned. “Right. I know it’s far away, but I’ve heard that a lot of the gentry have connections all over the place. So even though you’re Grubbs you could have relations that are Brandybucks or Bankses or… Bagginses.”

She could see Dalgo was confused and changed the direction of her questioning slightly.

“I’ve always wanted to go to Buckland, y’see. An’ you’re so knowledgeable about such things that I thought you might know of any Brandybucks in your family, even if it was from generations back.”

Dalgo swelled with pride, and any trace of confusion or suspicion that there might have been had disappeared in the moment.

“I’m afraid I don’t know of any Brandybucks. But Mother was a Banks, as it happens.”

“What about Bagginses?”

“Certainly. Through Grandmother’s side.”

She grinned. “Right. So… what’s the difference atween the Bagginses an’ the Sackville-Bagginses, then? I’ve heard both names, an’ I don’t understand what they are to each other.”

She listened patiently as Dalgo gave her a very long and not-very-interesting explanation about the headship of families, succession crises and the origin of the double-barrelled surname convention.

“I get it now,” she said when he paused for breath. “I was asking ‘cus I’ve been hearing a lot about this Lotho Sackville-Baggins of late… Do you see much of him, being a bit Baggins yourself?”

“Hardly. We are cousins, but only very distantly.”

“How distant?”

“He’s my third cousin once removed on the Baggins side, and my fourth cousin once removed on the—”

“Sackville side?”

“Boffin.”

“What?”

“And again on the Grubb side. Twice over.”

“ _What?_ ” Clover’s mouth hung open. She grew incredulous as Dalgo laughed and set her jaw. “You’re making fun of me.”

“I promise you I’m not. It’s all a bit tangled, isn’t it? You may check for yourself, if you’ve the inclination.”

Clover looked at him witheringly. “You know I can’t.”

“And why not?” He gestured around the room. “We have the resources.”

“I can’t read well enough for that.”

“Then you must learn faster.”

“Do you think I can?”

“I do. You could trace your own family’s history as well, if you wanted.”

Clover considered this. She had no lineage that she knew of, and the idea that she could be the first in her family with the knowledge and skill to construct a family tree was appealing. But then she remembered something significant: the Grubbs thought she was of age.

If she were to look through her family’s records (and she would need Dalgo or Monno’s help to do so) then her true date of birth would be uncovered. The problem wasn’t that she was young, it was the fact that she had lied about it, and had been lying about it from their very first meeting. What reason would they have to keep her after that? If they couldn’t trust her about something as simple as her age, how could they trust her to clean their belongings, live in their home with them or take care of their grandmother?

“I’m not interested in my own family, sir,” she said. “What’s there to find but sowers an’ reapers? Best to look forward, I think. It don’t matter where I came from, only what I can make of myself. I think I could make something…” As happened so often, there was no word she knew that could express what was going on in her head. Her realisation that domestic servitude wasn’t for her had banished any thought of becoming a housekeeper, but the kernel of her ambition remained.

“…beyond,” she said.

“Beyond what?”

“Anything. I’ll not stay in the dirt.”

“Ambition like that is rare, I find,” Dalgo said. He looked oddly amused, and she knew it was because it sounded so vague, like she didn’t understand what she was talking about.

“That’s why I know I can do it. No one else thinks like I do.”

“I see.” Dalgo leaned forward on the desk. “And what’s your plan to achieve this?”

“I’d do anything,” she said, and hesitated. “In reason, obviously.”

While this line of discussion had originally started as a way of getting Dalgo off the subject of her family history, it had begun to scratch too close to Clover’s true feelings, and she was starting to feel uncomfortable. Time to divert it back. She grinned to make it look like she was joking.

He looked at her thoughtfully and a shiver went down Clover’s spine.

“You said all that to distract me,” he said.

_Damn._

Clover did her best to hide her fear. She hadn’t expected this and she wasn’t used to it. She decided she preferred it when he didn’t understand her.

_You should have stuck to the flattery, you fool._

“You know so much about the old families,” Clover said quietly. “I just thought your time would be better spent looking into them. Not mine. Mine would be a waste.”

Dalgo didn’t speak at first, and for a moment Clover thought she had overstepped some mark. Then he slowly removed his spectacles. “I suppose it must seem like I spend all my time studying family histories. I don’t. At least, I don’t anymore. I have a good memory for things learned a long time ago.”

He leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. “It suddenly all seemed very morbid. Looking through all those names of Hobbits long gone… Names and dates don’t tell me anything of the person’s passions or hopes. And one day that’s all you’ll be: a name on a page, with no one who remembers what you were in life.” He smiled wryly. “It makes one feel rather insignificant.”

Clover ran her hand over the desk, feeling the grooves of the wood beneath the varnish. “I’ve got eight younger siblings,” she said. “I’ve never felt significant.”

Dalgo turned his eyes towards her. Without the reflection of the candlelight on his spectacles she could clearly see that his eyes were a warm shade of brown.

“It gets terribly lonely, doesn’t it?” he said.

Something stirred in her. Something she didn’t like. “Sometimes,” she whispered.

They sat in silence for a time, the book forgotten. The quiet was perfect and boundless, like clear water.

Clover jumped at the sound of Old Mrs Grubb’s bell, her heart pounding.

“Clover! I need help getting to the privy.”

“I need to see to her,” Clover mumbled, still flustered from the unusual baring of her heart. It was easy to understand why Meg seemed to keep hers closed so much of the time.

“I can help in getting her up,” Dalgo said, putting his spectacles back on and standing. “She is somewhat taller than you.”

“Uh… Yes, thank you,” Clover mumbled, trying to hide how flustered she was.

Dalgo rose from his chair and moved swiftly to the door. He held it open for her. “After you, Miss Delver.”

* * *

Monno stared blankly across the table as he ate his breakfast and the family chatted around him. Clover was stood in the corner, hands folded, waiting for instructions. Young Mrs Grubb had a number of letters spread in front of her and was reading them while she ate her toast.

“When I was young ladies didn’t read their post at the table,” Old Mrs Grubb said sharply.

“I’m sure,” Young Mrs Grubb murmured, but made no move to put them away.

“And we didn’t have to settle for half a bread roll each for first breakfast.”

“I’m sorry about that. I’ll be sure to pass it along,” Young Mrs Grubb said, putting one let aside and taking up another. “Otto and his wife are having another baby.”

“Who’s Otto?” Abelia said, picking at her egg.

“You know. Uncle Corbus’s second son.”

“I’m going to the Brownlocks,” Abelia said, standing up. “Celestine has some new watercolours she promised to show me.”

“Have fun, dear.”

“Take my tea cup to the drawing room on your way out,” Old Mrs Grubb said and she wheeled herself away from the table. “I want to read in the morning sun.”

Monno wasn’t paying full attention to all this. His mind’s eye was occupied with the evening before. Primrose’s petal-soft hair. The sound of her voice, softened to a whisper. The moonlight on her arms…

“Could you pass me the water jug, Miss Delver?”

This cut through Monno’s daydream like an axe. He looked up sharply at Dalgo as Clover handed him the jug. Old Mrs Grubb and Abelia had gone, and Young Mrs Grubb was still going through her letters and didn’t seem to have noticed.

“Why are you calling Clover ‘Miss’?” Monno said.

Dalgo poured his water without looking at his brother. “I understand that’s the proper way to address an unmarried lady.”

“Not servants,” Monno said before he could stop himself. Clover glanced at him but didn’t say anything and his face went warm with embarrassment. He drew in a deep breath and drank some tea to try and mask his fluster. He noticed for the first time that Dalgo was better turned out than usual. His cravat was tied neatly and he had actually bothered to brush down his jacket, though he still favoured his unusually dark palette.

Monno dawdled with finishing his breakfast. When Dalgo had gone to his study and Clover was washing the plates he finally took his chance and turned to his mother. “Aren’t you at all concerned?”

She looked at him over the top of her spectacles. “About what?”

“Dalgo. Clover.”

Young Mrs Grubb sighed and looked back at her letters. “He can address her as he wishes.”

“People will speculate.”

“I trust he’s wise enough to return to proper forms of address in front of company.”

Monno laughed harshly. He rubbed his chin as he stared at the opposite wall.

“You’re not speculating yourself, are you?”

“I don’t know.”

Mrs Grubb purposely set her pen down. “I don’t believe Dalgo would take advantage of a servant like that. Are you honestly concerned that he would?”

“It’s not him I’m worried about. It’s her. I don’t like her.”

“For what reason?”

“I’m not sure. Her baring. Her words.”

His mother sighed and picked her papers up again. “I’m sorry to hear that, but I’m not going to send her away without good reason.”

“You know Abelia’s teaching her to read?”

“I’m aware.”

“And you find that agreeable?”

“If it makes Abbie happy and it gives her something constructive to do, I find it very agreeable.”

Monno scowled. “She’s ingratiating herself. It’s not proper.”

Young Mrs Grubb gathered up her letters and moved briskly to the door. “We haven’t been proper for a long time, Monno, and I don’t have the energy to care about it as much as I should. If I were being more officious I could ask you were you go at night.”

“Mother—”

She turned to him sharply. “Yes?”

“I…”

_Mother, I’ve been betrothed to a wheelwright’s daughter for the last six months, I hope you don’t mind._

But he couldn’t continue the sentence, and his mouth hung open lamely.

She smiled tenderly at him. “I’m not going to pry. You’re a grown Hobbit.”

When she was gone Monno found himself staring at the wall. Clover opened the door from the kitchen and started when she saw him.

“Sorry, sir. I thought you’d gone to your study.”

“I should have. I’m just going,” he said. He considered apologising, but was too embarrassed to acknowledge it. Besides, he hadn’t said anything that wasn’t true. “Uh… thank you, Clover.” He moved swiftly to the door.

“Very good, _Mr_ Monno.”

He stopped and turned. Clover was wiping the table down with a damp cloth.

“I’m sorry?” he said.

Clover looked up at him. Her face was blank and innocent and when she spoke it was in a voice to match. “Yes, sir?”

They looked at each other. Monno realised he wasn’t going to be able to prove that she had put just a little too much emphasis on the word ‘Mr’. “Nothing. I think I misheard you.”

She smiled blandly and insincerely, and he turned away. He was going to have to keep an eye on her. Nothing good would come from her being in his smial.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was in development for a number of years before I wrote anything down and in that time I made about 12 family trees of varying levels of complexity. I’m not proud of myself and I don’t like adding explanatory notes to the text but I’ve put too many hours into this and by God I’m not letting it go to waste.  
> It was mentioned in chapter 16 that Old Mrs Grubb was a Bolger, but I didn’t mention that I intended her to be a granddaughter of Fastolph Bolger and Pansy Baggins, hence the Baggins connection.  
> There’s also the matter of all confirmed canon Bagginses being descendants of Buffo Boffin and Ivy Goodenough. Lobelia’s mother was a Boffin, so therefore she’s related to the Bagginses and the Poolside Grubbs by extension.  
> It’s also canon according to Appendix C of LotR that both Otho and Lobelia were descended from a pair of Grubb sisters: Laura and Lavender respectively. Laura and Lavender’s father was Dalgo et al’s great-great-great-great uncle.  
> This also all means that Dalgo, Monno and Abelia are distantly related to Sango and Rico, something I didn’t realise until recently.
> 
> I’ll see myself out.
> 
> (Stay safe <3)


	25. Conflicting Interests

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do not use any remedies mentioned to treat yourself or anyone else.
> 
> Also, I wrote this chapter in September of last year. Nothing here is meant as a commentary on the current situation.

“You don’t know where he’s gone, do you?”

“No, sorry.”

Meg scowled. “Three bloody weeks it’s been and I’ve not seen ‘im for five minutes together. You sure he’s not dead?”

“I think I’d notice if our Nick’d died,” Lavender said, taking a sip of her tea. “I did try an’ say he wasn’t the lad for you.”

“Oh, right,” Meg said, getting indignant. “So it’s my fault for being stupid, ain’t it?”

“Not stupid, but you can be bloody bull-headed sometimes.”

They were sat on Lavender’s bed so that they could speak in confidence. Meg had arrived at the Hobbles’ house immediately after work, hoping to see Nick, but had only found Lavender and Mr Hobble at home.

Lavender tapped on her cup with a fingernail. “So are you an’ Nick actually courting, or…?”

“Yes!”

“All right! Just thought it might be more of an understanding.”

Meg flushed. “I don’t have understandings.”

“Well, I don’t know! Reckon if I was you I’d only go in for understandings for a while, after getting out of a long-term thing like that.”

“You only go in for understandings anyway.”

“Not at the moment. I’m an honest lass now, remember?” Lavender said and grinned.

“Mmm… How’re things with Master Sango?”

“Relaxing,” Lavender said after a brief reflection. “He’s sweet enough. But it’s also getting a bit boring. Don’t know how much longer I’ll stick with him. But I’m sure you’d think worse of me if I did break with him.”

“You can do whatever you like, Lav. I’m a bit hurt that you’d think I’d pass judgement like that,” Meg said, but her mind flitted inevitably back to the situation with Nickon. It would be easier if he could just be straight with her. In a way ‘Bugger off and never talk to me again’ would be easier to deal with than this half-interest he seemed to have.

“I don’t think I’ll ever go in for understandings,” Meg murmered. “All I ever really wanted was to get wed and be a mum. Understandings won’t get me that.”

“Neither will Nick.”

Meg glared at hard as she could at Lavender, but her friend remained unconcerned.

“Mark me. It’s not right that you’re sat here complaining about ‘im when you’ve only been courting… how long?”

Meg didn’t look Lavender in the eye as she mumbled her answer.

“What’s that?”

“Near four weeks.”

“Right. So my advice is to cut ‘im loose and find someone better. Send my pay to the usual address.”

“It can’t be that he never wants to wed,” Meg said. “He just han’t found the right lass yet.”

“Trying to change lads is folly, Meg. You can give ‘em the opportunity, but it’s up to them whether or not they take it.”

Meg scowled. “Nick can change. Winden did.”

Lavender scoffed. “Oh, aye. Proper gentlehobbit he is, abandoning you the way he did.”

Meg’s face became hot with anger. That Lavender was _making light_ of it, when she knew. She knew more than anyone…

Meg stood up and grabbed her cloak from where it was draped over the bedpost. “I’m going.”

Lavender groaned and leaned back against the headboard. “Meg…”

“They probably need me at home. It’s our Hender’s birthday. They’ll need me for… for… something!”

“I’m sorry I made fun of Winden. It’s just I’m getting a bit weary of talking about Nick every time I see you.”

“It’s not every time,” Meg muttered as she fiddled with her cloak ties.

“As you say,” Lavender said. “But if I was you I’d ask your Jack whether he’s seen aught of Nick. Or you could try Atkin Button.”

Meg hesitated by the door, and nodded her thanks to Lavender before leaving. When she reached home it was to find that the _byrding_ and most of the other Delvers were out, as was usual.

The only people in the kitchen were Mrs Delver and Rob, trying to bring down the never-ending pile of dirty laundry. The rest of the smial was unusually quiet.

“Smoothly does it, lad,” Mrs Delver said, addressing Rob, who was ponderously running the clean clothes through the mangle. His eyebrows were knitted together in concentration. “Did you get to see Nick, love?” she said, turning her eyes towards Meg.

“No…” She sighed. “There anything I can do here, Mum?”

“You could take those over to Widow Stabler for me,” Mrs Delver said, nodding to a pile of dry laundry. Widow Stabler had been found collapsed in her smial a few days earlier, and the residents of East Warren Lane had been dropping in on her multiple times a day to check in and do various jobs for her.

Meg found herself staring at the clothes. Widow Stabler had helped look after her and her siblings when they were too young to work and there were too many of them for their mother to handle on her own. She wasn’t the only neighbour who’d helped in that respect, and they’d had their grandmother, but Widow Stabler had been one of their most regular carers.

“I can go if you’ll find it too upsetting,” Mrs Delver said, smiling gently at Meg.

She shook her head. “No. I want to. Least I can do.” She scooped the washing up and awkwardly shuffled her way out of the smial and down the lane.

When Meg knocked on Widow Stabler’s door she heard an indistinct call in resonse and let herself in.

“Who’s that?” the voice called from the depths of the smial.

“It’s me, Mrs Stabler,” Meg called back as she undid her cloak with one hand. “I’ve got your washing.”

“Is that little Nutmeg?”

Meg smiled to herself as she hung her cloak up. She was somewhat taller than Widow Stabler. “Aye, mistress. Where’d you like your clothes?”

“Just in here, if you please.”

Meg followed the voice to the kitchen where she found the widow stood on a rickety stool and stretching up to reach a jar on a high shelf.

“I’ll get that, mistress,” Meg said, putting the washing on the table and taking Mrs Stabler’s hand to help her down. “You should’ve sent for someone.”

“I don’t like to,” Widow Stabler said, easing herself down into a chair.

Meg retrieved the jar, and opened it unthinkingly. She raised her eyebrows. “Willow bark.”

“Just a little. Takes the edge off my rheumatism.”

Meg couldn’t bring herself to comment, but left the jar on the dresser where it could be easily reached. She noticed for the first time that there was a handbasket on the table, in which a large cat had made itself at home. It was much too large to be in there, with rolls of fur spilling over the sides. Meg was at a loss for how it had managed to squeeze itself under the handle.

It looked at Meg like there was nothing even remotely comical about this and she was foolish to think there might be.

“I think your cat’s stuck in the handbasket,” Meg said.

“Oh, no. He loves it in there. I leave it out for ‘im.”

“Mrerow,” the cat said.

Meg started pottering about the kitchen, tidying up. “Have you got everything you need? You’ve not been going short, have you?”

“Oh, no, lass. Everyone’s been so kind. Mr Hayes dug my potatoes up for me the other day. There’s some in a bowl there for your family.”

“We can’t take ‘em,” Meg said from where she was knelt by the hearth.

“Don’t be silly. I don’t need all of ‘em for myself. The Hayeses had their share.”

Meg wanted to protest further, but knew they weren’t in a position to refuse.

There was a sharp, cold breeze, the smell of frost, and Jack entered the kitchen, a pile of logs cradled in his arms. He started when he saw Meg sweeping out the hearth.

“I got your kindling, mistress,” he said, putting wood in a basket by the fireplace.

“Is there anything else while I’m here?” Meg said, standing and dusting the cinders off her skirt.

“No. Be on your way, lass. Don’t forget the potatoes.”

Meg heaved the bowel up, and she and Jack left the smial together.

“Let me take that,” he said, making to relieve her of the potatoes.

“I’m fine,” she said, but she was straining to keep a hold of them and had to adjust her grip to stop them from falling. “You’ve been taking up tree stumps. You must be spent.”

“We’re nearly done with that,” Jack said. “But I reckon we’ll be there a bit longer. There’s talk of building being done.”

Meg raised an eyebrow. “But you can’t build. None of us can build.”

“But I’ve been listening to the Big Folk, see, an’ Mr Sackville-Baggins came down to where we was working. I reckon there’s plans afoot an’ they need all the help they can find.”

“What sort of buildings?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you can’t build,” Meg said again. “You’re lots of lovely things, Jack, but a mason isn’t one of ‘em. What sort of person puts all that effort into buildings that won’t be no good?”

“A rich one,” he said darkly.

A chill went down Meg’s spine.

They reached Number 12 and Meg waited while he opened the gate for her. The matter of Nickon had been playing on her mind while they talked, but it all seemed a bit frivolous now. “You seen aught of Nick?” she said wearily.

He seemed surprised at the abrupt change of subject. “Aye.”

“Will you see aught of him this week?”

“Probably.”

“Tell him I’m angry with him.”

Jack frowned. “For what?”

Meg brushed past him into the smial. “He shouldn’t need telling.”

* * *

_Dearest Father,_

_I’m sure Mother or Uncle Hortenbold will have told you that we are all well, though some Men have settled in Bywater. They have been causing a little trouble, but nothing unforgivable. You don’t really think all hope for our kin and Master Gamgee is lost, do you?_

_Please take care. I know you told me not to worry (I’m not worrying an excessive amount) but I can’t help but be a little troubled by all the goings on. I know there are good things in the world and I do not despair, so don’t trouble yourself on my account. I feel sure that we will be safe if we do not cause troubles, but with Buckland being as wild as it is and so close to the boarders, I fear for you, if not for myself._

Tiger Lily tapped her finger against the desk. She wasn’t sure if she should add anything else, or just to sign off there. There were other things she wanted to say, but nothing her mother would allow. She was already skirting close to the line with what she was comfortable with her mother reading.

“Tiger Lily, could you read my letter for me?” Bandobold said, opening the door and plumping himself down on her bed. “I need someone to check the spelling.”

“Why don’t you ask Mother?” she said irritably. “She’ll have to read it before it’s sent, anyway.”

“Why?”

“Because she always reads our letters before they’re sent off.”

“Not mine.”

Tiger Lily stopped tapping and stared at the wall. “Is that right?” she murmured.

“She’s busy with dinner,” he said, swinging his legs back and forth. “And she wanted them sent off today.”

“All right. In a moment.”

“Do you have any feathers?” he said. “I need to replace some of my fletchings.”

“Yes…” She didn’t think about this properly until he started laughing. She looked around to find that Bandobold had opened her wardrobe and taken out the arrow-repair box. “I didn’t give you permission to go in there,” Tiger Lily said, scowling.

“Why do you have all these tatty feathers?” he said. “They’re useless. Look, this one’s dirty!”

She took a deep breath, doing her best not to look flustered. “They were a present from a friend.”

“Rowley?”

“No.”

He grinned. “You don’t have any other friends.”

Tiger Lily rose from her seat as her face became hot. “Get out, you little brat!”

He threw the box onto her bed and ran from the room, a wicked grin on his face. Tiger Lily sighed and went to tidy up the spilled bottles and feathers. There was a loud thump on the wall that separated her room and Bandobold’s.

“You’ll crack the panelling,” she called.

She was only answered by two more thumps.

Tiger Lily returned the box to its place in the wardrobe and went back to the writing desk. She gave up on trying to add more to the letter and simply signed it off:

_Your Loving Daughter,_

_Tiger Lily_

Dinner came and went. Tiger Lily sat perfectly still as a maidservant cleared the plates away.

“Mother, I’m hungry,” Bandobold said.

“I can’t conjure more food, dear, this is all they had at the market,” Mrs Took said as she read Tiger Lily’s letter.

“But what’s happened to the food?”

“A poor harvest, I imagine.”

While her mother still insisted on six meals being served a day, the amount of food in each had dwindled considerably over the last few weeks. It wasn’t unusual for Tiger Lily to skip meals when she was spending the day outside somewhere (another Tookish irregularity), but this change was concerning.

“Is everything going to be all right, Mother?” she said. “Are we going to have enough to eat through the winter?”

Bandobold paled and turned to their mother, who looked up from the letter and frowned.

“You’re making it sound worse than it is.”

“We’ve had bad harvests before, but I don’t remember it ever being like this.”

Mrs Took sighed and put the letter down. “We might have to tighten our belts a little but there’s no question that we’ll be ‘all right’. Perhaps this is what we need. It will teach us to be grateful for the times of plenty and help people come together, as happened in the Fell Winter.”

“But the Fell Winter was before you were born,” Tiger Lily said. “How can you make a comparison?”

“My mother spoke of it on occasion.”

“I’d rather not live through the Fell Winter,” Tiger Lily said carefully. “Even if it would bring out the best in people.”

“Will there be snow?” Bandobold said.

“It was a metaphor, Bandobold, I don’t actually expect there to be a repeat of the Fell Winter,” Mrs Took said. She picked up the letter again as the maid set the remains of yesterday’s apple pie on the table. “Tiger Lily… who is Master Gamgee?”

“Frodo Baggins’s servant,” Tiger Lily said simply, helping herself to a slice. “He went missing with the others.”

“How did you come to learn of the name? Your father’s never mentioned it.”

She shrugged. “I think I heard one of Mr Boffin’s farmhands mention it before they moved to Overhill. The Boffins, not the farmhand.” Tiger Lily was content with this answer. It was all technically true.

“Ah… It feels like an age since I’ve seen Sango. You must bring him to see us one day.”

“I’ll pass on the message, but I’m not sure when that will be. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him myself.”

Mrs Took raised her eyebrows. “It’s not him you’ve been spending the evenings with?”

Tiger Lily froze in the process of licking her spoon. “I never said it was…”

“No.” Mrs Took turned to her son and smiled. “Bandobold, darling, as a special treat you may have your sweet in your bedroom today.”

“I don’t mind eating in here.”

“Now, please.”

When he had gone she returned her attention to Tiger Lily. “I spoke to Uncle Hortenbold yesterday.”

“That’s nice.”

“He said you haven’t been joining him on his hunting trips, which brings up the question of where the game in the pantry is coming from.”

“Why don’t you read Bandobold’s letters?” Tiger Lily said.

“Don’t change the subject, please.”

“But I would like to know.”

“My mother—”

“I _know_ that your mother always read your letters,” Tiger Lily said, bursting with frustration.

Mrs Took pursed her lips at the interruption. “And she didn’t read my brothers’. So.” She slid the folded letter across the table. “Rewrite it, with the omission of the servant’s name.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Then I’m not sending it to Father.”

Tiger Lily reached across the table and snatched the paper back. “Then I’ll send it on my own.”

Mrs Took looked back at her, her eyebrows raised. “I wish you could have chosen a more convenient time to go through a difficult phase.”

Tiger Lily wanted to object to this, but that would only provide further evidence. So she settled for looking away sulkily.

“I know you don’t like it, I didn’t either, but now I’m glad she protected me like that. And when you’re married and have your own daughters you’ll feel the same way.”

This couldn’t be disproved yet, so Tiger Lily smiled sweetly in the hope that if she were compliant enough this conversation would finally end. “I’m sure I will. Is that all, Mother?”

“No. We still haven’t settled the matter of you hunting again. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Tiger Lily squirmed in her seat, willing herself to be anywhere but here and now. “Because you wouldn’t like it.”

“I dislike this more. Have you been going alone?”

Tiger Lily curled her toes and looked away from her mother’s searching stare. “No.”

“Lying is wicked, Tiger Lily.”

Tiger Lily steadily brought her eyes up to meet her mother’s. “I’ve not been going alone.”

“Then who have you been going with?”

She shuffled her feet. Caught between telling a truth that her mother would disapprove of (not ideal) and telling a lie (wicked), she settled for making a reluctant whining noise.

“I thought so,” Mrs Took said with a resigned sigh. “It’s a matter of safety.”

“I’m not frightened of the Men.”

“Don’t interrupt me, please. It’s not just the Men, I’m not happy with you shooting alone regardless. What would happen if you were hurt? The only reason I allowed you to be taught in the first place was so your father could show you how to shoot safely. I thought it might stop you sneaking off by yourself.”

Tiger Lily glared at her mother. When she was very young she’d had a habit of going to the woodworking shed when no one else was there.

“What I’m asking is that you shoot in the company of your uncle or not at all. I think that’s quite reasonable.”

It was reasonable, and that was what made it impossible to fight against. But she knew that if Rob wasn’t comfortable being around her mother he certainly wouldn’t be comfortable being around her uncle while he was armed with a longbow. If Rob didn’t go on hunting trips with her then he wouldn’t accept half the reward.

All rather inconvenient. But she could work something out.

“You’re right, Mother,” Tiger Lily said, smiling. “I promise I shan’t ever go hunting on my own.”

She said this with confidence, knowing that no matter what angle you looked at it from, it wasn’t a lie.


	26. Nickon and Caften

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s mentioned in The Hobbit that Hobbits play ‘dart-throwing’, among other games. I know there’s a lot in The Hobbit that doesn’t fit in with the Middle-earth we’re shown in LotR, and arguably this is one of them, but I decided to try and incorporate this idea as best I could.

It was the first day of December that the Delvers received a not-unexpected knock at the door. Meg and her mother were washing dishes and didn’t look up when they heard it, knowing someone else would be there to answer.

“It’s Nick,” Myrtle called from the hallway.

Meg and Mrs Delver exchanged glances.

“I’ll just go an’ see if there are any stray teacups about,” Mrs Delver said, wiping her hands on her apron and leaving the kitchen.

Meg continued drying plates as though nothing was happening, and only gave Nick a cursory glance as he walked in. “Hello, stranger.”

“Meg.” He nodded at her and sat on the table. “Jack said you was angry with me.”

“And why’d you reckon that is?” she said, putting a plate in the drying rack. “I’ve seen you once since you said you wanted to court me, an’ that was weeks ago.”

“I’ve been busy of late,” Nick said. “I’m here now, ain’t I?”

“ _Weeks_.”

He winced at this. “I know. I’m sorry. If you want to break with me I’d understand.”

“I din’t say that.”

“Eh?”

Meg put another plate in the rack and turned around to face him properly. “I don’t want to break with you.” She laughed at his expression. His mouth was hung open in silent surprise. “D’you think I’m that high strung?”

Nick seemed to return to his senses a bit and closed his mouth. “I don’t think it’d be high strung to want to break off now. You could do better than me.”

“I could do worse.” She smiled. “I’ve known you all my life, I know you’re a good lad. There’s naught better than one of them.”

He still didn’t seem to understand; he didn’t look like a lad who’d just been let off a huge mistake. There was no relief in his face, only shock and confusion. Meg took his hands to try and reassure him.

“You’re sorry. That means you mean well an’ you deserve a chance. I want this to work, Nick.” She chewed her lip as she awaited his reaction.

Nickon looked into her eyes for a moment before turning his gaze down to their hands. He sighed and put one of his over hers. “You’re a good lass.”

Meg did her best to keep smiling, and withdrew her hands. “I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?”

“Aye…”

“We don’t have many tealeaves left, so you’ll have to settle for a weak brew,” she said mindlessly as she fussed with the kettle. “But it’s the same for most people these days, I guess. Mind you, we don’t have much water left neither, but I could run up to the pump if…”

“Don’t put yourself to trouble. Here, let me help with the dishes.”

“You shouldn’t be doing that,” Meg said as he picked up the dish rag and started to dry one of the plates she’d left in the rack. “You’re a guest. And a lad.”

Nick shrugged. “Least I can do.” He put the dried plates in a stack with some others before heaving them up. He looked around the room, making his curls bounce. “Uh… Where’d these go?”

“Here…” Meg opened one of the cupboards and watched as he put them inside.

Nick stood back and put his hands on his waist, sighing. “I want to do right by you,” he said.

Meg set her jaw and started to blink in the hope that this would hide her building emotions, which were threatening to escape through her tear ducts.

“What’s wrong?” Nick said.

“Nothing.” She reached into the cupboard to move the stack of plates. “We usually keep ‘em on the right, with the bowls on the left. I’m not nagging, you weren’t to know, but that’s how we usually keep ‘em.”

“I din’t mean to upset you.”

“You’ve not upset me.”

There was a creek as the door to the kitchen opened. “Everyone all right in here?” Mrs Delver said. “Sorry if I’m intruding, but I thought I’d better check.”

Meg smiled brightly and turned to face her mother. “Aye. All sorted now. Nick was offering to help with the dishes but I was telling ‘im it weren’t necessary.”

“Right…” Mrs Delver said, glancing from one to the other.

Nickon stayed in the Delvers smial a few hours, but remained in a state of guarded unease. Meg guessed that it was because he was still guilty about being so inattentive. But she knew that like all things, it would pass.

* * *

Nickon carefully scanned the assembled Hobbits in the _Green Dragon_. When he’d left the Delvers he hadn’t had the nerve to ask where Jack might be. But the Dragon was his best chance, given that Jack obviously wasn’t at home and realistically there were only so many other places he could be. On the other hand Jonson and Rob hadn’t been at home either and Nick didn’t fancy running into them, and there were also only so many places they could realistically be. He breathed a light sigh when he spotted Jack and Atkin Button playing darts in a corner. Satisfied that Jack was the only Delver on the premises, he carefully shifted through the crowd, trying not to draw attention to himself.

As Nickon reached them Atkin was just pulling the darts out of the target; a small straw disc with inexpertly painted rings on it.

“You’re still in one piece then,” Jack said as Nick sidled up to their table _._ “Atkin’s paying.”

“Why do I always pay?” Atkin said.

“‘Cus you’re the only one with any money. It’s a practical decision.”

Nick put a hand in his pocket and put a handful of coins on the table. “Here. I’ll get this round if you go an’ fetch it.”

Jack watched silently as Atkin left. “Meg give you what for, did she?”

“No…” Nickon pulled out a chair and sat heavily. “Jack,” he whined, “I think I’ve done something stupid.”

“Only the one thing?”

“Very bloody funny.”

Jack rested the back of his head against the wall and decided to relent. “What’s up, lad?”

“I was expecting her to give me what for,” he said. “It was worse when she didn’t. I thought she was going to say she wanted to break with me, but she didn’t. She forgave me.”

“Wasn’t that what you wanted?” Jack said.

Nick looked at Jack with large brown eyes, like a dog that had just been kicked by its master. So he was breakable after all…

“I don’t know what to do,” Nickon said.

Jack turned away and pulled the last dart out of the target with a sharp yank. “Glad I’m not you, then.”

Nickon groaned. “Please, Jack. Tell me what to do.”

“Don’t know what you’re asking me for. I don’t know nothing about lasses or courting.”

“You’re clever; you know things. You know Meg. You know _me_.”

Jack folded his arms and fixed Nick with a hard, immovable stare. “I ain’t obligated to humour you.”

Nick winced as the memory of his own words came back to him. “You know all I wanted was—”

There was a thud as Atkin awkwardly set three frothing clay mugs on the table. Nickon turned away from Jack and sat glaring at the opposite wall. Atkin looked around at the tense scene like a rabbit that’s just found itself surrounded by wolves. “What’s going on?” he said, picking up one of the mugs in preparation.

“So Nick here,” Jack said, nodding to the wheelwright, “is courting my sister, even though he’s not got a taking for her. What d’you think he should do now?”

Atkin froze and looked from Nick to Jack and back again. “Why would you court someone you don’t have affection for?” he said, bewildered.

Nickon looked plaintively at Jack. “I didn’t mean to…”

“Which sister is it?” Atkin said.

“Nutmeg.”

An odd look passed across Atkin’s face. “She’s the tall one with the blue eyes?”

“Aye,” Jack said, frowning. He quickly brushed his puzzlement aside. “So now he don’t know what to do.”

“Right…?”

“I’m not helping him because he’s been stupid, but you’re softer than I am.”

He shook his head and his fingers, wrapped resolutely around his mug, started to fidget anxiously. “I’m, uh, I’m not very knowledgeable with lasses and courtships and everything…”

Nick covered his eyes. “Bloody _knowledgeable_ ,” he muttered. “You’ve gone really posh since your ‘prenticeship.”

“I’m just don’t think I’m the person to—”

“Talking to lasses ain’t hard, Atkin,” he snapped. “You’re not a bloody tweenager anymore.”

Atkin flushed and downed some of his beer. “I suppose I’d think about what I’d want if I was in her place.”

The next few seconds passed in silence, the words settling on them like snowflakes. Eventually Nickon drew in a deep breath, took a drink from a mug and reached for one of the darts. “Who’s winning?”

They didn’t speak of it again, sticking to small talk about families, work and the odd times. Eventually Jack took his cap and jacket. Nick desperately watched him go, waiting for Atkin to pause from talking about his father’s health long enough for him to make an escape. After Jack was out the door he lost his patience and abruptly made his excuses so he could follow him. Already Jack was well ahead, walking swiftly and nearly lost to the gloom. Nick wrapped his jacket tight around him and did his best to catch up. “Jack!”

Jack turned around sharply. “What?” His perfectly formed black curls were being pushed down by the cap, and lay against his ears and forehead.

Nickon took a moment to get his breath back. “What do you want me to do?”

“That don’t matter.”

“It does.” He sighed. “It does.”

“It _shouldn’t_.” He paused, breathing heavily. “If I told you to keep leading her on, you’d do it, wouldn’t you?”

Nick opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.

“Aye. You should be better’n that.” Jack turned away, tugging his ca further down his head and determined not to look back. “I’ll not help you with this one.”

* * *

It was the second day of December that the Delvers received an unexpected knock at the door.

“It’s Nick Hobble,” Hender called.

Meg perked up immediately. She was in the middle of hanging the washing on the indoor line, and dumped the remaining damp clothes in the basket.

“I wish you’d let ‘im go,” Mrs Delver said as she hung a pair of under-breeches. “I don’t like how he’s messing you about.”

“But he’s stepped up now, see?” Meg said as she untied her apron. “He listened to me.”

“As you say…”

Meg ignored this and rushed out into the corridor to greet him. The lad that met her was far from the swaggering rascal she was expecting. Nick looked odd; guilty. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Hello, Meg.”

“Hello. Nice to see you,” she said, smiling.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Can we talk? In private, like.”

“Uh… aye.” She took him by the hand and started to lead him outside.

“That’s not very private,” Nick said uncertainly.

“More private than in here,” Meg said, and attempted a laugh.

They stood awkwardly in the front garden, the chickens meandering between them.

“Tree’s not grown back any?” Nick said, looking at the stump.

“Weren’t really expecting it to.”

“No…” He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sorry, that was a stupid question.” There was further silence. “You look nice.”

Meg knew she was sweaty and her dress was dirty from work, but said, “Thank you.”

He put his hands in his pockets and half-heartedly kicked a chicken that started pecking at his foot hair.

Meg waited until the silence passed the point of awkwardness before speaking.

“You’re not still feeling bad, are you?” she said. “I’ve forgiven you. Really.”

At this Nick screwed up his face in discomfort.

“An’ you’ve already started making amends,” Meg said, desperate to make him feel better. “Look, you’re _here_ , without me even asking you. That’s good!”

Even this didn’t seem to give him any relief, as he sat on the tree stump with his head in his hands.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Meg said, wringing her hands. “Please. I want to help.”

His shoulders heaved as he took another deep breath. “I think we should break off,” he said.

It hit Meg like a physical force: painful and disorientating.

“I don’t,” she said. It was all she could think to say.

Nickon raised his head to look at her. His expression was completely despondent.

“I don’t think we should break,” she said, going to kneel by him. “I was too harsh on you yesterday, I see that now, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again. Just, please…” She grasped his sleeve with a tight hand.

“Lass…” He tugged his arm away and walked to the other end of the garden, leaving Meg kneeling in the dirt. “Look, it’s naught to do with you, all right?”

Meg’s mouth stayed open in abject silence.

“No, don’t get upset,” he said pathetically, and went to kneel beside her. “It’s not your fault, see? It’s mine. Only mine.” He tried to smile. “You don’t want a tomfool like me.”

“I do…” she whimpered.

“You deserve better’n that. We can still be friends.”

“But I’ve already got friends,” Meg said, very quietly. “Nick, please, I’ll try to be better…”

“I told you, it’s not about that!”

Meg covered her eyes with her hand and took a deep breath to try and stay her sobs.

“Sorry… I shouldn’t’ve snapped.” He patted her awkwardly on the back. “I’m just… sorry. Here, let me take you inside.” He put his hands on her shoulders to try and guide her to her feet, but she jerked away from him.

“No.”

He stayed by her side she didn’t know how long. He kept asking what he could do and there was no answer she could give that would satisfy both of them, so gave none. When it became obvious he wouldn’t leave her like this she told him plainly that she didn’t need his help or comfort, and he gave up.

Meg lifted her head from her hands to watch him leave through the gate.

She was back on the Common, the night of the festival, watching Winden walk away. She couldn’t go with him. There was no ground beneath her feet, and she was falling, not knowing where she would land.

All alone…

She could see Poppy and Martin watching her from the window. Meg sniffed and stood up, giving them a brief smile as she went back inside. She returned to hanging the washing without saying a word to her mother.

“You were out there a while. All sorted?” Mrs Delver said cautiously.

Meg didn’t trust herself to reply without making a fool of herself.

“You’re upset,” Mrs Delver said.

“I’m not.”

“Meg!”

“Need to get this washing hung…” she murmured, pegging out a shift. “It’ll take hours now it’s gotten so cold.”

Mrs Delver rolled her eyes. “All right. You’re a grown-up, I won’t pester you. But I would _prefer_ if you’d tell me what’s wrong.”

Meg said nothing, and Mrs Delver didn’t ask anything more. When they were finished with the washing Mrs Delver went to the parlour with the rest of the family, but Meg couldn’t rest. She tried sitting with the others, but she couldn’t stop her hands from twitching.

So she had gone to the kitchen and set about cleaning the floor. She lost all sense of time, and when she heard Jack’s voice say her name it felt like she’d been cleaning for both too long and not long enough.

“It’s a bit late to be scrubbing the floors, ain’t it?” he said.

“No.”

He went to stand over her. “Blimey, Meg, yours hands!”

Her hands had started bleeding a while ago—a side-effect of the lye—but she hadn’t cared enough to tend them. The stinging was memorable.

“You need to stop,” he said.

She didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop. “In a minute. When I’m done.”

Jack crouched beside her. “Nick break with you?” he said.

This shocked Meg into halting. She sat back and wondered when the room had gotten so dark. “I wasn’t expecting it so soon. So soon after…” She wiped her nose with a forearm.

“Why don’t you cry, Meg?” Jack said softly. “You used to be able to.”

“I don’t need to cry.” She knelt over again and went back to scrubbing the floor.

“I’m going to get Mum, you’re worrying me.”

“No, don’t.” She went to grab his arm but he flinched out of the way.

She looked down at her hands. “Sorry.” She smiled at him as best she could. “You don’t need to worry about me. I’m all right.”

Jack’s expression was stony. She sighed.

“Well, mayhap I’m not as all right as I could be. I’m just a little sad, that’s all. Everyone is when they lose a sweetheart.” Her demeanour changed very suddenly, like a shadow passing over a field. She stood up straight. “But you’re right, there’s no point in moping.” She brushed passed him as she moved to the hallway. “How’d you fancy going down the _Dragon_?”

Meg had asked Jack to go with her because normal, respectable people (especially ladies) didn’t go to taverns by themselves. But when she arrived she found herself automatically looking over who was there, in particular which lads were there. They had been there maybe half an hour when Winden arrived with a group of his friends. She kept a watch over him while she was sat with Jack.

“Oi!”

Meg winced as Jack flicked the side of her head. “Ow! What was that for?”

“You weren’t listening to me.”

“I was,” she said, looking at him resentfully and rubbing her stinging temple.

“What did I say, then?”

She hesitated. “My old ears couldn’t hear you over the din in here,” she said.

“Well, that don’t surprise me,” he said dryly. “I was asking if you felt better.”

“Oh, aye. But I don’t want you to worry about me.”

“‘Worry’ is a strong word. I was mildly concerned.”

“Whichever. I can worry for both of us.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “You honestly believe that’s how it works?”

“I want it to. Don’t you ever want to take the trouble from someone you love and carry it yourself?”

“No. I’ve got enough problems without taking up other people’s troubles. Don’t think you should try, neither. I mean—”

Meg was still glancing intermittently at Winden and now he had gotten up and was making his way to the bar. She got up automatically, not heeding what Jack was saying. Her window of opportunity wasn’t big and she couldn’t afford to wait.

“Where’re you going?” Jack said.

“Nothing. Just a minute…”

Jack twisted around in his chair to see where she was going and groaned. “By the Elder King, Meg!”

She ignored this, and the many things he said after. Winden was close now but he still hadn’t seen her. He was leaning against the bar, at ease with himself and the world. Meg’s heart was rattling against her collarbone, but she was doing her best not to show it and put on her best smile.

“Hello, Winden.”

He started, and looked at her like she was a waif. Then he looked away as though embarrassed, retreating into himself. “Meg.”

“How’ve you been keeping?” she said, struggling to keep on her sunny demeanour.

“Well enough.”

“Funny old times, eh? Your parents keeping well?”

“Aye.”

She had expected him to play along with the exchange of pleasantries, but he didn’t want to so she decided to skip straight to the important matters. “I got everything sorted,” she said.

He looked at her properly for the first time, and nodded gently. “Right. That’s good. For you, I mean.”

“Aye.” She chewed her bottom lip. “So does that mean we could have another go, maybe?” He looked away again and Meg started to panic. “I know you’re not ready for getting wed and… all that. But I was just thinking maybe we could just start courting again, see what happens…”

He stood up properly and cleared his throat, turning to face her in full. In the candlelight he looked just as he had when Meg had first spoken to him in that very tavern. Well built, with a strong chin and rich, dark brown hair that fell about in glossy, tantalizing curls. “Uh… no, sorry. I’m walking out with Lavinia Yardley these days…”

“Ah.” The smile suddenly became a lot more difficult to maintain. “Right. That’s good. Really good. I’m happy for you.”

He nodded. Four mugs were placed in front of him by the landlord and he took them up. “I’m glad things worked out all right. Take care of yourself, Meg.”

Meg pursed her lips and nodded as he walked away.

Jack had been watching the exchange through his fingers, though he was too far away to hear what was being said. He’d agreed to go to the inn less out of any expectation of enjoying himself, and more out of a sense that someone should be there to supervise Meg. When she had returned to his table and said she’d like to go home he didn’t hesitate, not least of all because Nick was staring at him from across the inn, Meg hadn’t realised and Jack didn’t want to find out what would happen if she did.

_This is what comes of living in a village that only has one bloody inn,_ he thought.

On the return home Meg walked a little ahead of him, silent and stoic.

“You want to talk about it?” Jack said.

“No. There’s nothing to talk about.”

He didn’t try again, but when he happened to glance behind he could just pick out the shape of Nickon Hobble following them in the dark. Jack sighed, stopped and patted his pockets. “I’ve left my dice behind. You go on, I won’t be a minute.”

Meg looked at him like she wasn’t sure this was true, but her better nature must have won out because she said, “All right,” and carried on back to the house.

Jack turned around and started to make his way back to the inn. He carried on a few paces, glancing behind him every so often. When he was sure Meg couldn’t see him anymore he stopped and stood in the middle of the dirt road, arms folded, waiting for Nick to come to him. When Nick finally reached him he stood dumb and awkward, like he wasn’t sure what to do with Jack now that he’d finally caught him.

“You should stop doing this,” Jack said.

“You’re still upset with me.”

Jack shrugged.

“Did Meg not tell you? I broke with her.”

“I guessed.”

Nickon frowned, as though trying to get his head around this. “Then why’re you upset? I did the right thing.”

“The right thing? Upsetting my sister is the _right thing_? You shouldn’t’ve been courting her in the first place.”

Nick looked down and sighed. He put his hands in his pockets as he stepped closer to Jack. “I can’t undo what happened. I can only try and fix it. I have tried, Caften.”

Jack looked down. Nick was standing very close to him now. They were exactly the same height and he couldn’t bear how Nickon’s eyes were looking directly into his own. “I wish you hadn’t done it.”

“I know.” Nick took one of Jack’s hands and gently ran a thumb over his knuckles. “I’m sorry.”

Jack sighed, and inclined his head downwards. Nick leaned forward and brushed his lips against Jack’s. Jack’s skin tingled as Nickon’s breath tickled his neck and for a moment his anger dissolved and there was nothing between them. Then—

“No.” He pushed Nick away with a rough shove.

Nickon stood back, confused and hurt. “Sorry. I thought…”

“Well, I can’t. Not now.” Jack seized Nickon by the braces and tugged him forward. “Because using my kind, stupid sister to make me jealous is a bloody horrible thing to do. To both of us.”

Jack scowled at him as hard as he could. There wasn’t any way for him to express the spectrum of feelings going on in his head. “We’re not friends,” he said. “Never friends.” He turned away, furious and failing. He was angry with Nickon, for his stupidity and the fact that he cared. He was angry with Meg a little. But mostly he was just angry with himself. Angry that he couldn’t stop thinking about how Nick was now stood on the dirt road watching him go; alone in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay.  
> So I’ve been writing this fic for a while now and as time’s passed I’ve become increasingly aware that there are a lot of elements that are problematic. The way I handled Nick and Jack’s relationship thread is one of them, and I really regret the way I’ve portrayed them for a number of reasons. Unfortunately didn’t I realise how many issues there are with this plotline (and others) until had written over 100,000 words. At that point I felt like my only options were to re-write the whole thing or scrap it entirely. I really don’t want to do the latter and the former would be too much of a commitment at this point. Overhauling my 170,000 word fanfic manuscript is not something I have time for.  
> So I’d just like to say sorry if you’re LGBTQ+ (or a cishet ally) and were offended my bad depiction of a gay relationship. I need to learn to think about the implications of things, there is no excuse and am doing my best to minimise the damage as I draft new chapters, though it’s still not enough. Keep safe, and enjoy my silly Hobbit-based soap opera if you still can.


	27. Eye of the Storm

_To My Dear Ones,_

_Theodand returned from Bree-land with no news. The Master wasn’t willing to extend his hospitality any further, Paladin has become anxious over the state of Tookland, and so we have returned to the Shire._

_I had thought this would give me leave to go home but Paladin has ordered that I go to defend Tookland with him and the others. He says that I have neglected my duty to the family for too long. I cannot deny the truth in this, but I am longing for Bywater. You are my truest family and my duty to you is greater, I feel. But he is the Thain and the head of the Tooks and I must obey. The journey is tiring and I feel another cold creeping over me. But I take joy from the prospect of being closer to home, even if I’m not quite there yet. I’m thinking of you all and I look forward to seeing you at Yule._

_Yours Lovingly,_

_Father_

* * *

“But _why_ does she read my letters and not Bandobold’s?” Tiger Lily said. She held her longbow in one hand and was keeping her quiver steady with the other as she and Uncle Hortenbold walked the old path to the Common. Bandobold was somewhere ahead of them, probably stood by the stile and getting frustrated with the wait.

“I imagine it’s because you’re a young lady,” Uncle Hortenbold said.

“Will she start reading his letters when he’s older?” Tiger Lily said.

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

“That means you do know but you don’t want to say. Can’t you do anything? You’re head of our line.”

“Child rearing is out of my jurisdiction. Especially the rearing of lasses.”

Tiger Lily huffed. “Stop smiling.”

“I’m enjoying your outrage.”

“It’s not funny.” They passed a bank where a group of Men were sat around a campfire. Tiger Lily tightened her grip on her bow as a reminder that she was not weak, and waited until they were well past before continuing the conversation.

“But she let me walk alone with Sango. Most mothers wouldn’t allow that.”

“That was probably because she believes you and he will get married one day. She seems to think it would be a good idea.”

Tiger Lily looked at him sharply. “And you don’t?”

Uncle Hortenbold raised an eyebrow. “You want to marry him, do you?”

“No. But he _is_ my friend. If you take issue with him, I’d like to know why.”

“Frankly, I think you could do better.”

Tiger Lily frowned. She had no expectations of marrying Sango, but the idea that he wasn’t _good enough_ to marry had never occurred to her. If by some bizarre turn of events he had asked her while she was unattached, she wouldn’t have thought of declining him. Realistically there would only be one option.

“How? He’s a Boffin. He’s the eldest son. He’s going to be the head of his line…”

“It’s not about status alone. I was referring to his character.”

She scowled as confusion was overwhelmed by hot indignation. “What’s wrong with his character?”

“Would you like the exhaustive list or just the main points?”

She turned away haughtily. “Neither, thank you. So…” She glanced at him nervously. “Standing isn’t of _very_ great importance in a match, then? In your view?”

“I didn’t say that. I don’t want to see you married to a… Berkeley, or a Thorn.”

“I haven’t heard of either of those families,” she said.

“Precisely.”

“Oh.” For a brief moment she had seen an image of herself sitting beside Rob in the drawing room with her family all around. It was silly, she realised now.

They had reached the stile. Bandobold was indeed waiting there and he chided them for being so slow while they climbed over.

The shoot went well enough and Tiger Lily was consumed by the old sensations that had made it so difficult to ever leave her bow behind; the night wind on her skin, the thrill of watching her arrow fly into the dark and the touch of the bowstring on her face.

They didn’t speak unless necessary, as was usual when they were hunting. But even when they were tramping back with full game nooses slung over their shoulders, Tiger Lily stayed quiet. Hortenbold was preoccupied by Bandobold’s excited chattering. By the time there were home Bandobold was tired and Tiger Lily and Hortenbold were left in the hallway while Mrs Took ushered Bandobold to bed.

“Did I upset you by insulting Master Boffin?” Hortenbold said after a protracted silence.

“No.”

“All I meant was that standing isn’t the _only_ consideration when thinking over a match. I think you could do better than Sango Boffin with regard to character, and possibly with regard to standing as well.” He gave her a meaningful look. “You know you’re about the same age as the Thain’s son? Think of it.”

Tiger Lily didn’t look at him. This idea made her distinctly uncomfortable but she thought it probably wasn’t a good idea to show just _how_ uncomfortable. “I’d rather not. He’s missing.”

“That’s not the point. If I were your father I would have made my plans long ago.”

“You could have made plans for Opal.”

“I did make plans for Opal, it’s just that none of them involved the Thain’s son.”

“Why?”

“She’s too old for such a match. It would be better if you were a year or two younger than you are, but we can’t have everything.”

Tiger Lily bit down on the inside of her cheek and it was only after an awkward pause that she could bring herself to say, “Sorry.”

“For what? It’s your father that should be sorry. But it wouldn’t occur to him that he’d done anything wrong.”

“I miss him,” she said.

“I know,” he said, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“I’m glad he hasn’t made plans,” she said, shrugging the hand away to show she was all right. “It would be awful being married to the Thain. All those people depending on you… I couldn’t manage it.”

He laughed. “Who do you think your servants and children will depend on?”

“I… um…” It was all she could do not to start trembling as the reality of it set in. Expectant faces turned to her, believing that she knew what was best…

“At any rate,” Uncle Hortenbold said briskly, “now that Opal is settled I can turn my attention to finding a suitable mate for you.”

Tiger Lily tensed her shoulders uncomfortably. “Opal isn’t settled _yet_. Surely she could do better than Buffo.”

He raised an eyebrow. “His father’s head of the Bunces.”

“But what about his character?”

“Nothing concerns me in that area. When Opal is married and times are happier, I thought Mertensia and I could start taking you with us on our summer visits to Tookland. How would you feel about that?”

Tiger Lily fidgeted. It was like the air was filled with pins that made simply being in that room painful. “I really don’t think I could face being married to the Thain, Uncle. He wouldn’t want me anyway.”

“There’s no harm in trying. And you do have other cousins, you know. There’s Adalgrin, Filoric, Adelbrand… Not Hildiwin.”

In spite of herself, Tiger Lily’s curiosity was piqued by this. “Why not?”

“He was begotten out of marriage. And his mother lives apart from his father. You don’t want him.”

“I see.” She cleared her throat. “Though I wasn’t expecting to be married very soon.”

“No. It’s not quite time yet.” His eyebrows drew together in concern. “I’m just a little worried that you’ll need help finding someone, and I’d like to know you’re safe and settled while I’m still head of the line.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I’m very _old_ , as you’ve sometimes had occasion to point out. When I’m gone you’ll only have your father to help and I don’t have great hopes for him.” He sighed as Tiger Lily glared at him as hard as she could. “I know you’re fond of him, and that’s admirable, but he has rather let you down in this area. He could have tried to introduce you to the Thain’s son before now, but he didn’t. I would have introduced you myself at Pan’s accession, if you hadn’t started snivelling when I introduced you to the Thain.”

Tiger Lily coloured with embarrassment. “There were a lot of people there! I was nervous!”

“When Aferbold spends his days shut up in his study he doesn’t benefit anyone but himself. He’s made no effort to connect with other families, never mind the Tooks. You want to make a good marriage for yourself and the family, don’t you?”

Tiger Lily sighed as she relented. “Of course I do, Uncle. I’m sorry for being difficult.” She smiled. “I know you know what’s best.”

* * *

Meg sat on the ground, hugging her legs, her chin rested on her knees. Granger, usually punctual to the point of irritation, was late. Very late. By now the labourers of Boffin’s Farm (they still called it so, even though this name wasn’t accurate anymore) had come to expect the new farmer’s absence, and dutifully followed the orders given to them through Granger. But there was growing unrest; a sense that his abandonment of the farm was a sign of disdain and a feeling that he didn’t appreciate the hours they put into the land. If he did care then why wouldn’t he give orders directly to their faces? This was compounded by the fact that it was now common knowledge that Mr Sackville-Baggins was the root of the shortages, though some people were starting to become accustomed to them. It was odd, Meg thought, what hardships people could become accustomed to.

They were gathered outside the farmhouse as usual. The new granaries were stood a little way off, conspicuously clean and looking out of place next to the old one. They were nasty, tarred things built to Mr Sackville-Bagginses specifications, but even they had simply become just another part of the farm.

“Thirty bloody years I’ve worked with ‘im,” Mr Delver muttered. “You only have to be five minutes behind for him to give an earful. I swear the best of the morning’s gone. When he gets here I’m going to…”

“Jonson’s back,” Meg said, casting a cautious eye on the twins and Martin, who looked very eager to hear what would be said next.

Jonson had wandered away out of boredom but now he was coming back at a jog.

“What’s happened, lad?” Mr Delver called across the field to him.

“Granger’s down in east field,” Jonson said, slightly out of breath, “talking to the Big Folk what’ve been staying there. He don’t look happy, Dad, he’s full red in the face. But they’re coming up this way now.”

Jonson re-joined his siblings and tried to look as though he had always been there. Not long after this Granger appeared over the curve of the hill, tiny next to the Men walking behind him. Meg stood up sharply when she saw the look on his face. It wasn’t a look you sat down for.

When they stopped outside the farmhouse Granger looked like someone escorted there against his will. Meg got the sense that the Men were stood over him to make sure he said the right things.

“Now,” Granger said, addressing the assembly in general, “Mr Sackville-Baggins understands that many of you have been doing work that’s outside of your usual element and he thanks you for it.”

“Where is he then?” Mr Delver called from the crowd.

The Men looked at Mr Delver and shifted their stances threateningly. Granger cleared his throat and said, “He regrets that he cannot be here, sir, but his work keeps him in Hobbiton.”

“If he be such a hard worker, where’s all his wheat?” said someone else.

“You’d do well to speak when you’re spoken to,” a Man said, stepping forward. He had a heavy club in his hands, easily big enough to knock a Hobbit down. Meg watched the club as the talk continued around her. Sweat prickled over her skin and her heart was beating so hard that she felt faint. There was no escape from this.

“I’m sure Mr Sackville-Baggins has it all in hand,” Granger said quickly. “Regardless, it’s his wish that the land you’ve cleared be used for houses and he’s asked that some of you help with the building of—”

“We are not masons!” Mr Delver said. “Taking up tree stumps is one thing, we do that in the fields here, but it’s not our job to build houses.”

There was an affirmative cry from the assembled Hobbits. Meg searched around for Jack and found him stood silent, his arms folded across his chest. He was the only one that didn’t look surprised.

“My lads are not breaking their backs doing work they’ve not been trained for,” her father shouted, nearly frothing at the mouth.

The Man with the club walked forward. In spite of their earlier defiance the Hobbits scurried to move out of his way.

“Do I need to give a report of you to Master Lotho?” the Man said, glaring a Mr Delver with unveiled disdain.

“No need for that,” Granger said, pushing his way through to Mr Delver. “I’ll talk to him.”

He put a hand on Mr Delver’s back to usher him away from the Man.

“Jon, leave off,” he said in a low whisper.

“This ain’t right,” Mr Delver replied, somewhat louder.

“For goodness sake, think of your family.”

“It’s them I’m fighting for.”

“And what’ll your Joy say when you come home to tell ‘er you’ve lost your place?” Granger said. “What’s your plan then, eh?”

Mr Delver winced, and covered his face with a well-worn hand. “I have to do something, Geldred.”

“It’s not forever.” Granger glanced around at the Man and lowered his voice further. “At least wait until winter’s done.”

Mr Delver groaned, and nodded.

Granger clapped him on the shoulder. “Good lad.”

“Right,” a Man said. “Them that’s to so the building will come with me. Only those that’ll be useful. None that’s old or young. You,” he said, giving Rob’s shoulder a shove “Stand over there.”

Rob looked uncertainly to Mr Delver, who nodded, and he walked – docile – to where the Man had pointed. Jonson and Jack were also chosen soon afterwards. Meg was surprised when a large hand was put on her shoulder and she was forced to spin around and face the owner. The Man looked her up and down before shoving her to one side. “You’ll do.”

Meg hadn’t expected any lasses to be chosen.

“Who’ll mind the little’uns?” she said in her state of bewilderment.

He was already assessing another worker and either didn’t hear her or didn’t care enough to respond. Knowing that saying anything more would be foolish, she walked stiffly over to the others. In the end most of the workers were chosen to go with the Men. Poppy, the twins and Martin were the only Delvers to be left behind. As she and the others were led away Meg glanced back to see them watching in a cluster, looking very small and fragile in the big world. For the first time, she was truly glad that Clover had left the farm.

* * *

The Hill lay stark against the sky. Around the top were the score or so of Men that could usually be found around Bag End these days. There were the beginnings of a stone structure in the garden. Tiger Lily and Sango were watching from a verge while their ponies grazed and Balbus Boffin sat huddled under several layers of winter coats.

“Do you know… I’ve rather gone off Cousin Lotho,” Sango said.

“I’m sorry,” Tiger Lily said.

“He was never one of my favourite cousins. I’ve always dreaded his and Aunt Lobelia’s visits. She loves Rico. Hates me.”

Tiger Lily leaned her head against his shoulder. “I like you.”

He chuckled. “I’d question your taste but—”

“There’s no ‘but’ about it,” Balbus said, his voice muffled from under the coats.

“Thank you, dear coz,” Sango said.

“You’re welcome.”

“What news from Bywater?” he said, ignoring Balbus.

“There are a lot of houses being built along Bywater Road,” Tiger Lily said.

“I’ve seen them.” Sango sighed and rested his chin in his hand. “I don’t like how everything’s changing.”

“Everything has to. Eventually.”

They looked out over the new mill. Unfinished but well under construction.

“It seems like such a long time since we’ve sat and talked like this,” Sango said. “How are you managing with us apart?”

“You’ve been gone?”

He snorted.

“I’m managing better than I thought I would,” Tiger Lily said. “Much better, in fact.”

“Good.” He smiled sadly at her. “I was worried you wouldn’t be. I miss Bywater.”

“Sorry.”

“Why? You didn’t do anything.”

“Just generally sorry.”

“I’m still not sure all Men could be like this, you know?” he said conversationally. “Beren was a Man.”

“Yes, I’m sure he was.”

On an impulse Tiger Lily took his hat off and put it on her own head. It was too big but there was still a crescent of light under the rim.

“It suits you,” he said dryly.

“My ears were cold.”

“You’ll be wearing foot coverings next.”

“Maybe I will.”

Sango laughed and pushed the rim of the hat up to uncover her eyes, slowly revealing his face to her, like the dawn of a new day. “Don’t change,” he said.

This surprised her and she frowned. “What?”

“You said everything has to change. I hope that doesn’t apply to you.”

Tiger Lily looked away at the Hill again. She liked the idea of change. Not necessarily all change, but in particular she liked the idea of changing in herself; becoming someone else. She was already changing. She could feel it, like ground sliding away from beneath her feet. She wasn’t sure if there was anything she could do to stop it now, even if she wanted to.

* * *

Meg had been avoiding the Hobbles’ house since Nick had broken with her. Now she couldn’t put off seeing Lavender anymore and Clover hand strong-armed her into going together, making sure to tell Meg how childish she was being. When they arrived only Lavender was there. She said she would offer the Delver’s tea, but they hadn’t been able to get any for three days.

“Why is he wanting to build, do you know?” Clover said when Meg had explained the reason for her dusty dress and grazed hands.

“Somewhere for the Men to live?” Meg hazarded. “They need somewhere to go, an’ it’s not like they can fit anywhere else.”

“So they’re here forever?”

Meg hadn’t considered that and her spirits sunk to hear it. The Men had shouted at them when they had started their work with clumsy, unsure movements. She had still been hoping that everything would go back to normal one day. Maybe not…

“It’s not that bad,” Meg said.

Lavender looked hard at her. “What do you mean ‘it’s not that bad’? There’s no bread.”

“Well that’s not ‘cus of the Big Folk, is it?”

“They work for Lotho Sackville-Baggins, and Lotho Sackville-Baggins is the one what’s brought about the shortages,” Clover said. “They’re part of it.”

“But they’re not—”

The door to the workshop opened and Meg cursed internally when Nickon walked in. He started when he saw her.

“Afternoon, lasses,” he said, smiling desperately.

“Nick,” Meg said, suddenly very interested in the grain of the wood on the table top.

“How’s, uh, how’s Jack?”

This question took Meg by surprise. “You’ve not seen ‘im yourself?” ~~~~

“Not much of late. We had a bit of a fight. An’ I don’t like to come round to yours after…”

“You mustn’t feel embarrassed about coming over. We’re grown-ups, ain’t we?”

Clover looked hard at her sister but was firmly ignored. _You hypocrite, Meg_.

“Guess so,” Nickon said. “Listen, it’s my birthday on Friday. Can’t really have a party here with all the shortages. Everyone’d go home hungry and sober. Not sure which is worse.” He laughed nervously. “So I was thinking I’d steal your idea an’ have a gathering down in the _Dragon_. It was a really good thought of yours.”

“It was Lavender’s thought, not mine.”

“Oh… Wouldn’t’ve expected her to think of it.”

“Charming,” Lavender muttered, sipping her water.

Uncharacteristically, Nickon didn’t rise to this. He seemed preoccupied, incessantly tapping his fingers against the back of his hand. “Uh… You can come. Only if you want to. Or you, Clover. Or any Delvers. Maybe not the little’uns.”

This seemed to perk Meg up considerably. “Aye. That’d be lovely, wouldn’t it, Clove?”

Clover smiled faintly, but didn’t speak. She didn’t draw any attention to this exchange until they had left the Hobbles, deciding it would be wise to leave it until they were out of earshot. Meg was walking slightly a few steps ahead of her and finally Clover couldn’t be quiet any longer.

“You sure you want to go to the _Dragon_ on Nick’s birthday?” she said.

“Aye. Why wouldn’t I?”

Clover gave her a look that could wither a tree. “You honestly need me to explain?”

“Folk can still be on good terms after they’ve broken,” Meg said.

Clover wasn’t friends with any of her old lovers because all of her courtships had ended when she’d realised that the lad was an ass and not worth her time. That was how she remembered them, at least.

“They can…” she said carefully. “But you’re being funny about it.”

“I’m not being funny about it.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“One minute you’re avoiding ‘im, next you’re tripping over yourself to go to his birthday.” Clover paused to let her point sink in. “You’re being funny.”

Meg sighed and came to a standstill. She had an odd, vague smile on her face. “It’s nothing you need worry about.”

Clover studied her sister’s expression as carefully as she could; the turn of the mouth and the misty eyes. She groaned as realisation dawned. “Oh, no…”

“What?”

“You’re not thinking of trying to mend things with him?”

Meg stepped away, folding her arms defensively. “Why shouldn’t I? He obviously wants to mend things or else he wouldn’t’ve invited me to his birthday.”

“As a friend,” Clover said, still not able to believe what she was hearing. “Why are you being like this, Meg? By Er—”

“Don’t!” Meg put her hand over Clover’s shoulder, squeezing so hard it hurt. “We don’t use His name like that, you understand?”

Clover glared at Meg as hard as she could, willing her eyes to burn a hole into her sister’s head. She considered trying to say it again, just to spite her, but decided this wasn’t the time. “Why in your right mind would you want that lad to take you back?”

“I wasn’t good enough before,” Meg said simply. “I’ll be better this time.”

“You make me want to tear my own hair out sometimes!” Clover said. “You’re such a fool!”

“I’m grown, I can do as I will.”

“That don’t mean you should!” Clover paused to get her breath back. “Tell me what happened with Winden.”

Meg’s angry expression immediately changed to one of indifference. It was forced, Clover knew. No one could switch their temper off that quickly.

“We broke off,” Meg said before turning away.

“But _why_?” She stood in Meg’s path to block her way. “I think you’ve gone wrong somewhere and I reckon it’s all to do with him. You are going to tell me what happened, because I am _sick_ of you being like this and refusing all help that comes your way.”

Meg smiled a frustratingly calm smile. “There’s naught to tell you of.”

She walked away, tall and sedate. Clover fumed where she stood as months of frustration bubbled to the surface.

“I’ll work it out,” she called. “You know I can.”

Meg stopped and turned. Her face was blank. “I told you, there’s nothing to work out. No point putting that head of yours of waste.”

Clover watched Meg go. Her resolve had hardened to stone. She had tried to be kind and it hadn’t worked. Nothing had worked with Meg. She knew she could find out what had happened.

* * *

Jack stared at the sky from his seat on the front step. The stars were just coming out; tiny pinpricks in the velvet sky above. He missed smoking. When the leaf had first run out he’d felt like tearing his own limbs off. Now that feeling had dulled and he just missed the ceremony of the whole thing. It gave you something to do while you went over your thoughts. Now there was nothing to do but stare and feel the ache of his arms.

“Meg home yet?”

He looked lazily at Clover, who was leaning over the garden fence. She had a hungry look about her, and not the kind Hobbits usually had.

“The fine lady has deigned to visit us, has she?” he said. “Aye. Meg was back an hour since.”

“I think she’s gone wrong.”

“What?”

“She’s gone wrong. I’m not sure how or why exactly, but she has an’ I need you to tell me why.”

“What?” Jack said again, unable to think of any other reply. He felt his spirit wilting when Clover told him about Meg and Nick. This wasn’t fair. He hadn’t asked to be dragged into any of this. And somehow the knowledge that he had done nothing wrong wasn’t enough to get rid of the guilty feeling in his stomach. “Why me?” he said weakly, to both Clover and himself.

“‘Cus I’m not here to keep an eye on her anymore and you’re the one I have the most faith in.”

“I don’t know what’s up with her,” Jack said. “ _You’re_ who _I’d_ ask.”

“Then I need to figure out what’s wrong, ‘cus I can’t be doing with this. It’s got to do with Winden Hale, I think.”

“How much would we have to pay Winden to take her back? For our sanity?” he said.

“More than we can afford,” Clover said. “But why did they break it off?”

“People break off. It happens.”

“An’ you’d know that, would you?”

Jack scowled at her. “Just ‘cus I’ve never courted, that doesn’t mean I don’t understand how it works. I’ve had all you lot bothering me with your problems for years. Mostly Jonson.” He took a deep breath as a dozen post-break conversations passed through his memory like fog. “And anyway, we’ve been through this before. He left ‘cus he promised to marry her when she came of age – apparently – an’ knew he had to make good or bolt.”

“Don’t know about that…” Clover said. “If he said he wanted to wait to get wed, Meg would have pretended she didn’t mind and agreed to a longer betrothal.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know people.”

“You’re not any better than the rest of us.”

This stunned Clover into silence for a moment. Then her expression became keen again, so subtly that anyone who didn’t know her well wouldn’t have noticed. She tilted her head to one side slightly. “Nick said you’d had a falling out.”

Jack suddenly couldn’t stand to look at her anymore and turned his head away, hoping there was nothing incriminating on his face. “Aye.”

“Want to tell me why?”

“None of your business.”

“Fair enough.” She looked down at her hands. “I reckon I know how people work is all. I think there was something else that drove Meg and Winden apart. I might be wrong. Or I might not be. I keep thinking about the day of the festival. She was so happy. I think that might’ve been the last day she was actually happy.”

Jack leaned back. “Don’t remember that. I remember her whinging about being tired.”

“She winded herself trying to catch up to me when I left early. I remember…” She closed her eyes.

Jack closed his eyes too and shuddered. When he opened them again Clover had paled. Her eyes were wide and she was staring at an invisible point past Jack’s shoulder.

“What?” he said.

“Nothing… I’ll see you another day.” And with that she was off, as abruptly as she had arrived.

Jack rose from the step and called after her but she didn’t respond. He sighed, his breath rising as steam, and looked up at the sky again. He’d heard once that Elves worshipped the stars. He wasn’t sure why. Candles were more useful, and _people_ had made them. Not some distant Holy One that he wasn’t even sure existed, but mere people, with all their flaws.

It was just a shame the people he knew had too many flaws to make the candles worthwhile.


	28. Rue

Meg didn’t have many dresses that she liked. Most of her skirts had several inches of material added to the hem to accommodate her height and the fabrics of her bodices had become rough and stiff with washings. But her best dress was different. It was made entirely from a deep, wine-red material that she was told didn’t go well with her colouring. But Meg liked it.

She didn’t often have reason to wear it, and made a point of not wearing it too much so it didn’t get worn out. She had been wearing it the first time she met Winden.

Meg tied her hair back in a way she hoped was comely and went to bid goodbye to her parents. Jonson and Rob had already left, the former because he was playing the drum with the other lads and the latter to meet his young lady so they could arrive at the _Dragon_ together. Meg disapproved, but that wasn’t a conversation she was prepared to have with him. Maizey had refused to go and it seemed likely that Clover would take the same attitude, although she hadn’t said so. They hadn’t spoken properly since Meg had agreed to go to Nickon’s birthday, but a few days ago Meg had seen Clover and Primrose talking in hushed voices at a crossroads.

_“It’d hurt, most are abed for a day or two after. I wouldn’t recommend it unless there wasn’t any other way to go,” Primrose had said and lowered her voice further. “You’re not…?”_

_“No,” Clover had said quickly. “Definitely not. It’s for a friend.”_

They had grown quiet when Meg approached. She had asked if everything was all right and they had assured her all was well.

Regardless, Meg would be going to see Nickon at the _Green Dragon_ alone.

She stopped by the kitchen when she saw who was inside. Jack was sat alone at the table, slouched forward with a distinctly irritated expression on his face.

She hesitated in the doorway, reluctant to leave her little brother on his own.

“You sure you won’t come, lad?” she said.

“No.”

Meg went and sat next to him. “Nick was asking after you. He’s worried.”

“Don’t care.”

“I reckon you might care a little.”

Jack huffed and turned his head so that he was scowling into space.

She reached out to touch his arm. “You want me to fetch one of the others?”

“No.”

“All right.” She squeezed his shoulder. “Have a nice evening.”

She was at the door when he said, “You shouldn’t be going.”

Meg sighed. Her mother had also been angry with her for agreeing to go, and Maizey had called her a fool. Everyone was always telling her what she shouldn’t be doing, like they knew what she wanted. “That’s not really up to you, lad,” she said.

“Please, Meg,” he said and Meg was surprised with how pleading his voice was. It was so rare for Jack to show any vulnerability. “Just stay at home tonight.”

Meg wavered for a moment in the face of Jack’s desperation, but she couldn’t forget why she wanted – needed – to go. “Why don’t you want me to go?” she said, despite knowing full well.

A pained look crossed Jack’s face. “He’s not for you, Meg. Go to the _Dragon_ on another day and meet a different lad.”

“I’m all ready to go out now,” Meg said with all the levity she could muster. “It’d be a waste not to go now.”

“If you do go it’ll be a waste of your time.”

“My time’s not worth much,” Meg said. She was anxious to get going and it was obvious she wouldn’t be able to make him understand. “Unless you have a change of heart I’ll see you in the morning.” She turned away to get her cloak from the coat stand. “Goodnight, Jack.”

* * *

Clover only spared herself a brief glance in the mirror before leaving. She didn’t see the point in dressing up nicely for the birthday of someone she only cared about tenuously. Her old work clothes would do nicely, but she had let her hair loose. She felt that was sufficient.

As she was leaving she found herself face to waistcoat with Dalgo Grubb, who was just coming back in. He didn’t know she was there and ended up knocking into her as he entered the smial.

“I’m sorry, Miss Delver. I didn’t see you,” he said when he’d realised what had happened.

“It’s all right, sir. You’re not the first,” she said, standing aside to let him pass once she’d collected herself.

He was flustered and didn’t say anything as he disappeared into his study.

It occurred to Clover that he probably hadn’t seen her with her hair loose before and it was all she could do not to start laughing right there in the doorway. The gentry could be very strange sometimes.

* * *

Tiger Lily had picked out her plainest dress and let her hair loose in an attempt to look sufficiently unlike herself. It had worked quite well. As she examined herself in her mirror she considered how in her usual dresses she looked like one of her ceramic dolls: crisp; clean and new. This Tiger Lily was none of those. The various changes her body had undergone over the last ten years or so had happened almost without her noticing. Except her monthly courses. Those had been a shock.

She went out through the window. As she walked to the appointed meeting place the wind ran its fingers through her hair. She and Rob met beneath the oak tree like two lovers in one of Sango’s love stories, and walked to the inn hand in hand.

“You won’t leave me alone while you talk to your friends, will you?” she said.

“I’ll try not to. If I did you could find me yourself.”

“I could. Sorry, I’m just nervous.” She instinctively held his hand tighter.

“Of what?”

“People. Lots of people. Most of them I won’t know.”

“You din’t have to come.”

“I wanted to. That’s what real sweethearts do, don’t they? Go to parties together.”

“Is that what makes a real couple in your mind? Going to parties together?

She laughed. “It’s as good a definition as any. Why, what’s yours?”

“Don’t think I have one.”

“Then you can’t say mine is wrong.”

As they continued chatter fell freely from Tiger Lily’s mouth in the way that was so difficult when she was in other company.

* * *

When Meg arrived at the _Dragon_ she picked Nickon out of the crowd and approached him with her brightest smile on. He seemed surprised when she greeted him with a hug. “Happy birthday, Nick. You look well for it.”

He smiled uncertainly. “Thank’ee. You look… uh… nice. Here, let me get you a drink.”

He bought her a half but was whisked away by some of his friends before Meg could say anything else. Then he had started talking to Winden and the whole thing had become too embarrassing. So Meg stood at the side of the room, feeling huffy, watching Nick and waiting for another opportunity to speak to him.

“Having fun?” a dry voice from below her shoulder said.

Meg didn’t need to turn to see who it was. “Aye. Come to lecture me?”

“Assuming the worst?” Clover said. “That’s not like you.”

“Just based on previous experience. I might be stupid but I can learn.” She looked around and glanced at Clover’s plain clothes. “Din’t make much of an effort, did you?” she said, out of surprise rather than ridicule.

“I din’t think it was worth it. Did you borrow the lip paint from Lavender?”

Meg looked away and pursed her reddened lips, embarrassed. “Tansy Atterton.”

“Ah.”

“You needn’t judge me.”

“I’m not judging you.”

Meg went back to watching Nick.

Clover must have picked up on this because she said, “You could go up to him yourself if you’re sick of waiting.”

“I already have,” Meg said. “It’s not good to look too keen.”

“No.” Clover sighed and folded her arms. It looked as though she had been building up to this. “Look, I’m sorry if I’ve been too harsh. You know you can talk to me about aught that’s bothering you.”

Meg didn’t like how Clover was looking at her; worry that was uncharacteristic for the eldest of her little sisters.

“I’m fine.”

“Good.”

They stood side by side, not saying anything or looking at each other. Though neither of them could say it, they both knew Meg was lying.

* * *

It wasn’t as bad as Tiger Lily had expected. After she’d adjusted to the level of noise and number of people she’d been able to enter a state of calm, which was where she had stayed for the last couple of hours. Rob had been able to buy them some halves himself, thanks to the money he’d made selling game to the butcher.

At the moment he was outside attending the call of nature and Tiger Lily was able to sit comfortably in a corner, completely inconspicuous. She was anonymous here. Dancers whirled around the room in pairs while everyone else chatted over their mugs. While she waited she was listening to the frantic music. The revellers were singing and beating their tankards on tables to the rhythm. She had never been further away from the drawing room. It was golden.

_And so Miss Lily Lightfoot,_

_She went down to the fair,_

_With blooms of red and yellow,_

_All done up in her hair._

_And when she turned about her,_

_What was it she did find,_

_But Timmy, Tommy, Jimmy and Jonny,_

_Following on behind._

_Then said that pretty maiden,_

_‘What am I to thee,_

_That you’ve walked through wood and over hill,_

_Just to follow me?’_

_Said they to Miss Lightfoot,_

_‘We’ve got us in a bind—’_

“It’s been a little while since I’ve seen you.”

Tiger Lily started at the sound of Lavender Hobble’s voice. “Oh, hello,” she said, doing her best to return Lavender’s cheery grin. They hadn’t seen each other since the Boffins’ farewell party. “How are you?”

“Well enough, miss. This party’s more my sort of thing. Better drink and not so many posh folk with their heads stuck up their own behinds.”

Knowing that her family were probably included in that statement, Tiger Lily hummed her agreement, not knowing what else to say.

“You on your own?” Lavender said, taking a draw from the mug in her hand.

“No, I’m here with…” She trailed off when she realised what she was doing, but now Lavender was looking at her expectantly. “Rob,” she finished lamely.

“Rob Delver?” she said. “You stepping out together?”

“Uh… Yes.”

“Aw, bless. He’s a sweet lad; a bit quiet. How long?”

“A couple of months. Um…” Tiger Lily’s fingers trembled as she fidgeted. “Sango isn’t with you, is he?”

“Nah. I’m only here to annoy him.” She nodded at Nick. “Why’d you look so frightened?”

Tiger Lily released a breath as relief washed over her. “It’s not anything important. It’s only that I haven’t told him Rob and I are courting. I’d prefer to tell him privately.”

Lavender frowned. “Why han’t you done it yet? I thought you two was thick as anything.”

“He told me courting Rob would be silly, that’s all.”

“So you’re scared of telling ‘im?”

“No,” she said quickly. “Not _scared_ , just… sort of…” She sighed. She wasn’t sure there was a word for what she was feeling. “I don’t want him to worry.”

Lavender’s expression was serious. Her eyebrows were drawn together and her plump red lips were set in a frown. “Right.”

Rob had re-entered the inn now and was edging between the other patrons towards them. Tiger Lily quickly turned to Lavender. “You won’t tell him will you?”

“Why would I do that? It’s not my business. Evening, Rob.”

“Lavender,” he said, nodding and touching Tiger Lily lightly on the shoulder.

“We was just having a little gossip about lads and things,” Lavender said, grinning. “I’ve been hearing lots about you.”

Rob laughed nervously as he sat down. “You to join us?”

“No. Don’t panic, I wouldn’t want to get in the way. Nice you see you again, miss.”

“Din’t know you was friends with Miss Hobble,” Rob said when she had gone.

“I enjoy her company.”

“Aye.” Rob’s face and ears were flushed.

Tiger Lily cooed and brushed his cheek with a finger. “You’re embarrassed.”

“I’m not,” he said, snickering and twitching his face away.

“You needn’t be. I didn’t actually say anything about you, she was just teasing.” Tiger Lily folded her hands on the table again. “Your secrets are safe from Miss Hobble.”

Rob looked at her silently for a moment, the corner of his mouth pulled ever so slightly into a smile. “You enjoying yourself?” he said.

Tiger Lily smiled tentatively and tucked a curl behind her ear. “Yes, thank you. Are you?”

“Aye.”

The music stopped. The dancers dissipated in laughing pairs and there were shouts for which song should be played next.

“You fancy a turn?” Rob said.

“No, I’m a terrible dancer.”

“I din’t say I was any good.”

“All the more reason not to, then.”

Rob drew his chair closer to her and smiled nervously as he put his large, rough hands over hers. “I was actually wondering if you wanted us to head off somewhere. Just us two.” He lowered his voice as he continued, “A barn or… something?”

His eyes were questioning, and she sensed there was more to this suggestion than she could decipher. But it seemed to be important to him, so she smiled. “All right.”

Rob broke into a grin. “Come on then.” He took her hand and led her to the door, where they slipped out unnoticed.

* * *

Meg relentlessly scratched her nails against the table. She had completely lost track of Clover and Lavender and now she was sat on her own. She was vaguely aware of a quarrel happening among the musicians, but was too preoccupied with watching Nickon to pay attention. Why was he ignoring her? He had wanted her to come. Now it was as though he’d forgotten she existed.

She was only snapped out of it when someone put a violin on her table with a clunk. She followed the arm of the violinist until she came to look upon his face. He was a red-haired lad, his face pale and unusually thin for a Hobbit. She thought she recognised him as working in a shop.

“Would you, uh, would you like to dance?” he said, wiping his trembling hands on his breeches.

She turned back to Nick, who wasn’t even looking in her direction. So far she hadn’t danced at all, just in case Nick decided to ask her himself and found that she was already partnered with someone. But it was looking increasingly unlikely that that would happen. But should she risk it?

“Yes,” she said.

She smiled at the lad as she stood and led him to the dance formation, where they became the bottom couple. Why shouldn’t she dance with someone else? It would show that she was a fun, playful sort of person. The sort of person it would be fun to court. Maybe it would even make Nickon jealous and jolt him into realising he wanted her.

The music began, sans the fiddle.

“How’ve you found this evening?” the red-haired lad said.

“Good enough. It’s nice to get out when this autumn’s been so dreary. You?” Meg didn’t really listen to his answer as her feet followed the dance of their own accord, remembering the steps from so many parties and festivals past.

The many turns in the dance made it difficult to keep track of Nick. When she did manage to glimpse him he didn’t seem to be looking her way. She realised her partner was asking her a question and she had to turn back to him.

“Sorry what was that?”

“I was asking how your family are managing,” he said, struggling to make himself heard over the music.

“As well as anyone else, I reckon.”

By this time they had become the top couple and had to part in order to re-join as the bottom couple again. The inn was so full that Meg found herself having to weave around the other patrons. She walked on the balls of her feet to try and better see Nick. The music was just a confused blur in the back of her head. She was pulled out of this by a clatter followed by a whooping cheer from the other party goers. Meg turned to see that her partner had tripped and was lying next to an overturned stool.

With one final glance at Nickon she made her way around the dance over to the red-haired lad.

“You all right?” she said, helping him to his feet.

“Uh… I think so…” He put a hand to his brow and brought it away with a smear of blood on his fingers.

“Oh dear…” she murmured, leading him over to a vacant table.

She got out her handkerchief and dabbed at the graze on his forehead, hoping frantically that Nick was watching so he would see what a nice, caring person she was.

Something had captured Nick’s attention and he was moving through the crowd with a purpose. She realised he was going to the door and turned just in time to see it close. Whoever had been there was already gone. Nick was out of the door just as fast.

“What’s happened?” Clover said, coming over.

“Uh… lad’s got a bit of a scratch, that’s all,” Meg said, staring at the door. “Could you hold this a while? I just need too…”

As soon as Clover had pressed the handkerchief to the cut Meg was away, out into the night.

* * *

Jack hadn’t meant to go. But sat in the smial he’d felt like he was in an oven where the fire kept getting hotter and seconds passed like hours. Eventually he hadn’t been able to stand it anymore and had trekked out to the _Green Dragon_ alone with only his jacket and scarf to protect him from the bitter air. Then he’d actually reached the _Dragon_. His eyes had quickly found Nick, and Nick’s had found his. In that moment he’d realised it had been a bad idea, so he’d run away. Knowing Nick would follow him he tried to dart around the back of the inn, but he was too slow and hadn’t turned the corner by the time Nick called his name. Jack groaned and pulled his jacket closer about him as he heard Nick’s footsteps coming up behind him.

“Hey, lad,” he said. “Din’t think you was coming.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Oh. Why’d you change your mind?”

Jack didn’t say anything.

“Why don’t you come in? I owe you a half.”

“I’m on my way.”

“All right.” There was a pause. “Listen, I’m sorry about—”

“Don’t!”

“I just wanted to say sorry.”

Jack had been expecting Nick to step into his eye line, but he didn’t. Jack slowly turned around, feeling it was inevitable.

Nick sighed, the steam of his breath getting spirited away by the wind. “How’ve you been?”

“Fine.”

Nickon put a hand into his waistcoat pocket and brought out a package. “Here. It’s my present for you.”

Curious, Jack took the package and peeled back the brown wrapping paper. He glanced back up at Nick. “Where’d you get this leaf from?”

“Been saving it. Thought I might as well give it to you.”

Jack hadn’t smoked in months and it took all his self-control to push the package back into Nick’s hand. “I don’t want it.”

“All right.”

Feeling he should say something more, Jack added, “Good birthday?”

“Nice enough. I thought it’d be a bit drab, but it seems like everyone just wanted to forget about the Big Folk for a bit.” He breathed into his cupped ands and rubbed them together. “Am I in my late-thirties yet, or am I still in my mid-thirties?”

“Does it matter?”

“I reckon it does. I’m worried my dad’ll start asking me about when I’m getting wed.”

“What’ve you told ‘im?”

“Nothing yet, he’s not been asking. But he sometimes mentions about the business an’ passing it on to my children. It was my great-great-granddad what came here from Hobbiton an’ I’m Dad’s only son. All those years of the family business an’ it all comes down to me. If I don’t have little’uns, it’s all over. Sometimes I wonder if it’d be easier to just get on with it.”

“What? Marry Meg?”

“Not Meg.”

“Then who?”

“I han’t really thought that far,” Nick said.

“You never do.”

“‘Cus you always think afore you act!” Nick said. Jack turned away in distaste and Nick sighed. “I know I’m an ass. But I’m trying to make things better. I’ve done my best, Jack.”

“You still shouldn’t’ve done it.”

“I know.” Nick leaned against the wall of the inn, hands in his pockets. “Why’re you so scared, Jack?”

“I’m not.”

“You’re all hunched up.”

Jack realised his shoulders were tense and he did his best to relax them.

“Do you know what I reckon?” Nick said. “I reckon you’re so prickly because you’re scared of what’ll happen if you let anyone get too close to you.”

Jack sniffed and nuzzled into his scarf. “Don’t be stupid.”

“See, that’s what I mean. It’s not usual.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“Never said that. Never _thought_ that.”

Jack folded his arms tighter. “It’s just… What’s the point of it? Why make yourself weak to someone? What do you get back?”

“You won’t know unless you try, lad,” Nick said. He touched Jack tenderly on the shoulder. “I’m glad you came, even if it wasn’t for long.”

Jack watched as he started to walk away. Damn. “Wait.”

Nick stopped. Jack took soft steps towards him. He placed his hands on Nick’s shoulders and, after looking him squarely in the eyes, kissed him. When he drew back Nick was blinking at him in surprise.

“It was all right,” Jack said finally.

“Right… You coming in then, or…?”

“No.” Jack patted Nick on the shoulder before brushing past him. “But I might see you in the week.”

* * *

Clover knew something was wrong when Nick came back into the _Dragon_ without Meg. She looked at the red-haired lad who was still sat with Meg’s handkerchief pressed over his forehead. “Will you live?”

He drew the handkerchief away to check the bleeding. “I think so.”

“Good.” Clover rose to go and started to make her way towards Nick.

“The handkerchief—” the red-haired lad said.

“Keep it.” Clover managed to grab Nick by the shoulder as he walked past. “Did Meg go home?”

He frowned at her. “Don’t know. Han’t seen her since she arrived.”

Clover rushed to the door. A million scenarios of what could be wrong flickered through her head, most of them involving the Men. It was dark and there was no sign of Meg in front of the inn. There was only one person on the road and it was clearly an old gaffer. Clover walked around the side of the building but there was nothing. The only movement was the icy wind stirring the branches of the trees. She turned a corner that brought her to the back of the inn. Meg was there, leaning heavily over the fence.

“Meg?” Clover said.

“It was Jack,” she murmured. “It was never me he wanted. It was always Jack.”

Clover inhaled through her teeth. “Ah. You din’t know about Jack, then?”

“No, I didn’t bloody know,” Meg snapped. “An’ I suppose you did?”

“I thought that might be how they leaned.”

“You knew and din’t tell me?”

“It’s not my business!”

Meg pressed her palms to her eyes and let out a frustrated shriek.

“I think,” Clover said as gently as she could, “that you was still upset about everything that happened with Winden when you started going after Nick. Mayhap if you just give yourself some time—”

“I don’t need any time!” Meg was angrier than Clover had ever seen her. “You think you’re so bloody clever don’t you? I’m always just the fool to you. Well I’m _sorry_ , Miss High-and-Mighty. I’m sorry you’re stuck with the likes of us, who don’t understand any of the marvellous things what go on in your head.”

“I’m not—”

“Sometimes,” Meg said, “sometimes it’s like you’ve confused being stupid with being kind. Like if you say a nice word or do a good turn it means you’re giving in to the idiots. Why can’t you just be _kind_?”

“Why are you angry with _me_?” Clover said. “It was Winden that left you with child.”

Meg froze. She stopped leaning against the fence as her posture stiffened. She was trying to put away the anger that had been plain on her face a few moments before, but couldn’t quite manage it. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Clover scoffed. “Don’t give me that. Look, I’m not passing judgement on you.” She hesitated. “Actually, I am. What are you thinking of, going through all this and not telling anyone? I don’t know what you took to try and get rid of it, but you could’ve _died,_ Meg. Why din’t you go to Mum an’ Dad for help? How could you think any good would come from hiding it?”

It happened slowly and then all at once. Meg’s mouth twitched and then her entire expression crumbled. She screwed her eyes shut and covered her mouth with her hand. “I was so scared,” she said. Her breathing suddenly became deep and gasping.

“It’s all right,” Clover said, immediately regretting her harsh words. She guided Meg away from the fence and eased her down so she was sat on the ground with her back against the wall of the inn. “Ignore what I said, it didn’t mean aught. Why don’t we just sit down here a bit?”

By now Meg had dissolved into shuddering sobs, though there was no trace of tears on her face. “I didn’t mean to tell you,” she said between breaths. “I’m sorry— I’m sorry—”

“You’ve done nothing wrong,” Clover said. “I shouldn’t’ve spoken like that. It’s none of my business.”

They stayed silent for some time, until Meg’s breathing slowed to its normal rhythm.

“I told Winden the night of the festival, after Mum an’ Dad had taken the little’uns home,” Meg said, but her voice sounded vague and far away. “I’d only been sure a few days. I thought… I thought he’d be pleased too. But he got upset, he said he weren’t ready for it. I asked him what difference it made, we was getting wed anyway. He’d promised…”

She wrinkled her nose in disgust.

“He said, ‘You can’t expect me to remember every little thing I say, Meg.’ We argued a bit. Then he walked away. And all I wanted was to go with him.” She stared into the distance with glassy eyes. “I went to see him the next night in case he’d changed his mind. He gave me three shillings.”

Clover hunched forward and covered her face with her hands. “By Elbereth, Meg…” She inhaled deeply and tried to compose herself as best she could. “How far along are you?”

Meg shook her head. “The herbs worked. I was six weeks then.”

Clover leaned against the wall as the relief of this news overcame her. She’d assumed the herbs hadn’t worked and Meg had been pursuing Nick in the hope he would marry her out of kindness. The knowledge that one of Meg’s plans had gone the way she wanted was something, even if it wasn’t her first plan.

“I’ve brought shame on the family,” Meg murmured.

“You din’t do anything wrong,” Clover said firmly, massaging her knuckles. “When I next see Winden Hale I’ll wring his little neck.” ~~~~

“You mustn’t blame him.”

“Why not?” Clover said. “He hurt you.” She was surprised to find that her own voice was wavering on the verge of weeping.

“If he weren’t ready he weren’t ready. Better he told me so than to pretend otherwise.”

“Why din’t you tell anyone, Meg?” Clover said.

“What could they’ve done?”

Clover shook her head desperately, floundering for solid solutions. “Dad could’ve had a word with Winden’s parents. Or him an’ Mum could’ve passed the little’un off as one of theirs.” She swallowed. “Mum could’ve held your hand while the herbs did their work…”

Meg whimpered and looked away. “They can’t be worrying about me on top of the money problems and everything. That’s what you do when you’re in a family, you put yourself last.” Meg paused. A puff of steam emanated from her mouth. “Who’s the first you remember?”

“What?”

“The first baby you remember being born. Properly.”

It took Clover some time to reply. She was too weary for this. “Hender.”

Meg smiled weakly. “Rob’s the first I remember. Mum an’ Dad woke us all in the middle of the night and took us to Grandma and Grandad’s. I din’t know why. I just wanted to go home to see Mum again. When we got back Dad looked odd, sort of smug. He had a bundle in his arms. He said it was his birthday present for us, it had arrived last night. Then he knelt down for us to see and it was a new baby.” She sniffed. “I always, a little bit, wanted to be with child when I was wed.”

Clover had always known how eager her sister was to marry and start a family, but this seemed incomprehensible, even for Meg. “ _Why?”_ she said exasperatedly.

“Because it’s all sorted out then. I’d be a wife; a mum. Everything I’ve ever wanted.”

“Then why’d you go after Nick Hobble?” Clover said, feeling her frustrations rise again. “You must’ve known he wasn’t good for any of that. Heaven knows you were told enough times.”

“I don’t know!” Meg said, covering her face with her hands. “He was there! He was interested! Or he seemed interested… at first…” She sighed. “Everyone’s growing up. You’ve gone off on your own, and Jonson’ll be of age next year. What happens to me when there aren’t any of you left for me to look after? What’ll be the use of me then, if I’m not a wife or mother?”

“You’ll find a use,” Clover said steadily. “A bad thing happened to you. I think mayhap you need to come through that properly afore you start worrying about what’s to come.”

Meg didn’t say anything and Clover didn’t push her to. She waited until her hands had gone numb before getting herself and Meg to their feet. They walked back to the Delver’s smial together, Clover too worried about Meg’s state to allow her to make the walk alone. When they arrived Jack was just taking off his scarf and coat.

“You been out?” Clover said.

“Just a little walk. What’re you…”

He was interrupted when Meg pulled him into a tight hug.

“What’s this for?” he said, tensing his shoulders.

“Nothing,” Meg said, releasing him. “I’m just soft, that’s all.”

She disappeared into the lasses’ room. Jack cast a confused look at Clover. “What’s wrong with her?”

Clover shook her head. “She’ll tell you if she’s a mind to.”

She didn’t stay, but immediately began the walk back to the Grubbs’ smial, alone but for her own thoughts.

* * *

Rob put his head around the door of the barn. Apparently satisfied by what he saw, he turned back and beckoned Tiger Lily to follow him in. She had wondered if there was something different about this barn. Rob seemed so keen on coming here, but she still wasn’t sure why. She followed him up the ladder to the hayloft and was surprised to find it was the same as any other. It was almost identical to the one on Boffin’s Farm, where she used to play with Sango.

Rob helped her off the ladder. “You still all right with this?” he said.

Tiger Lily wasn’t sure why she wouldn’t be, so simply replied, “Yes.”

He dug in his pocket and brought out an odd, stringy object, which he hung around her neck. It was like an odd sort of necklace: a tatty string attached to a leather pouch, sewn shut.

Then Rob kissed her and she forgot her confusion for the moment. This she understood.

He led her to a pile of hay where they sat down together. He started to kiss her again, leaning over her so she was reclined back on the hay. One of his hands cupped her face while the other was on her waist. It took her a while to realise the one on her waist was moving, slowly pushing her skirt up until he was able to reach underneath and touch her thigh.

Oh. So that’s what this was.

In a panic she drew her lips away from Rob’s. The hand stopped and he looked down at her, obviously confused.

She swallowed, fearing his reaction. “Um… could we not?”

The confusion remained, but there was no anger there. “Aye,” he said softly. The hands were removed and he lay beside her on the hay.

They lay in silence for a time. Tiger Lily’s heart was beating very quickly and she had to take several long breaths before she could speak. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to lead you on but I didn’t know this was what you wanted.”

Rob’s eyes widened and he started away from her. “Shit. Sorry…” He sat up. “Sorry,” he said again.

Tiger Lily remained perfectly still. He was facing away from her now, hunched over with his hands over his face.

“Do you not like me anymore?” she said.

His muscles tensed. He looked over his shoulder at her and there was a flicker of anger in his eyes. “You think that little of me?”

“No.” She sat up, and scooted forward to sit beside him. “I think that little of _me_.”

The anger disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. “Lil…” He put an arm around her shoulders and kissed her temple. “I wish you wouldn’t say stuff like that.”

“Sorry. I didn’t want you to think I thought ill of you and it just slipped out,” she said. “It’s just I don’t know why you’d still like me when I can’t please you.”

“It’s not meant to just please me, is it?” Rob said, rubbing his thumb up and down her shoulder.

Tiger Lily whimpered and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. The truth was she didn’t know. “I don’t want to be a hussy,” she said.

One of his eyebrows twitched upward. “Am I a rake, then?”

“Don’t be silly.”

“I should’ve checked you knew what I had in mind,” he said softly. “I’m sorry I din’t. You’re not too shaken, are you?”

“No.” She removed the leather pouch from around her neck. “What’s this?”

“Got it from the pellar. It’s meant to stop accidents.” He must have realised she didn’t understand because he added, “Little’uns. You want to keep it, or…?”

Tiger Lily looked at the pouch. If her mother ever found it in her possession she would have to answer some very awkward questions. “No, thank you…” she said, pushing it back into his hand. “What’s it made of?”

“Don’t think you’d like it if I told you,” Rob said as he put it back in his pocket. “D’you want to go somewhere else or…?”

“I think I’ll go home. It’s getting late.”

They climbed back down and left the barn in awkward silence. The outside air cooled Tiger Lily’s skin, flushed with embarrassment.

“You want I should walk you?” Rob said.

“I’m not frightened of the Men,” she said. “But you can walk with me if you like.”

They fell into step with each other. Rob ran a hand through his hair.

“Can I see you again tomorrow? Or the day after?”

“The day after. I’m helping Mother decorate for Yule tomorrow.”

He let his fingers tangle with hers, like he was asking for permission to take her hand. Tiger Lily interlaced their fingers properly and squeezed his hand as a reassurance. Whatever else happened, he needed to know she cared for him.

* * *

Clover went straight to her bedroom, not paying attention to whether any of the lights were on in the Grubbs’ chambers. She shut the door behind her, covered her face firmly with her pillow and screamed.

Life wasn’t fair.

This was something Clover had known for a long time, but tonight it seemed to be written across her mind in furious letters, as much a part of the world as the earth and sky.

Bad things happened to good people and it wasn’t fair.

Meg was lots of things: stubborn; small-minded; bossy… But she believed, fundamentally, that people were good. And she had been duped and hurt and even then she refused to think badly of the person who’d wronged her.

Clover was jolted out of her thoughts by a quite knock on the door. “Miss Delver? Are you quite well?” Dalgo’s voice said from the other side.

Groaning internally, she wiped the tears from her eyes. She went to open the door and hoped Dalgo wouldn’t be able to see the state she was in. “Well enough, sir, thank you.”

“I apologise for the intrusion, but it sounded as though you were in some distress.”

His stance was nervous and he was unwilling to meet her eye. It occurred to Clover that this was the one room in his home he never went in, though it was only separated from his own bedroom by a wall. This was what Dalgo Grubb looked like when he was out of his domain.

He was wearing a dressing gown over his nightshirt but his spectacles were still balanced on his nose. He’d been reading.

“It’s a private matter, sir. I shan’t bore you.” Clover swallowed. She wanted to keep it all in, but she also felt like she’d explode if she didn’t say anything. “What’s the point in being kind?”

Dalgo looked understandably startled by this. “I’m sorry?”

“You can’t rely on people. It don’t matter how kind you are to them, they’ll use you and throw you aside like you’re nothing. People always tell you to be kind but it don’t seem to make any difference in the end.”

“I have heard it said,” Dalgo said slowly, “that kindness is its own reward.”

“But I can’t feel it,” Clover said desperately. “You must’ve read something that explains it all because I’m not good enough to know on my own.”

“I wish I could help, but it would be the blind leading the blind I’m afraid,” Dalgo said. “Maybe you’re better than you think.”

Clover leaned against the doorway, feeling drained. “I’m not good,” she said.

Dalgo looked thoughtful for a moment before disappearing into the parlour. He came out again a moment later. “Here,” he said, proffering a slim volume and a piece of paper.

She took them uncertainly, thinking he might change his mind and withdraw them at any moment.

“It’s your reference. Longo Boffin seemed to think you were a good sort. The book is just a few short stories. I find reading helps me get to sleep if I have a lot going on in my head.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said, looking down at them in a daze.

He nodded and finally returned to his own quarters. Clover sat on her bed, looking at the book and reference. You couldn’t rely on people. But maybe they could still be useful if you knew what you were doing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I doubt this is necessary, but I’ll say it anyway because I’m neurotic. The use of abortifacients is not a safe way to terminate a pregnancy, unless it’s a medical abortion using tablets prescribed by a medical professional.


	29. In Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIVE
> 
> Sorry about the hiatus. I wasn’t intending to have one but I’ve had a lot of stuff happening offline that’s been keeping me busy. I like to try and do my final proofread in one sitting as that makes it easier to find any repetition or repetition, but this usually takes most of the morning and I was getting very stressed trying to find the time. Then I realised this wasn’t healthy and I should probably just take a break. So a break has been taken and I feel much better for it.
> 
> Thank you for your patience, now enjoy your scheduled hobbit melodrama :)

It was the day after Nick’s party. Meg, her mother, the twins and Martin were kneading bread dough when Clover arrived. Mrs Delver looked up at her through straggles of dark hair. “Hello, love. We missed you yesterday.”

“Sorry. I was a tad busy,” Clover said, dropping her weekly wages into the jar on the kitchen dresser.

“How much’ve you been giving us?” Mrs Delver said, straightening up and trying to brush her hair out of her eyes.

“Six shillings a week,” Clover said, becoming uneasy. “Do you need me to start giving the other two?”

“No, it’s just I swear there’s more in that jar than there used to be. I thought mayhap you was giving us all.”

“More money’s always good, I s’pose,” Clover said, eyeing the jar. “But it’s not coming from me. Thought I’d lend a hand with getting ready for Yuletide.”

“That’s nice of you. Not much to do today, though. Nothing needs doing with the presents an’ it’s too early to start on the cake.”

The background chatter coming from the other rooms suddenly became sharp with anger.

Mrs Delver sighed and moved quickly to the door. “I’ll go an’ see what’s up. Could you put the dough in for proving, Meg?”

Clover watched Mrs Delver leaving from the corner of her eye. She walked up beside Meg and helped her get the dough into the large mixing bowls.

“How’re you doing today?” she said, quietly enough that the children wouldn’t be able to hear.

“All right,” Meg said, smiling wanly. “Better than I have been, I think. I’m sorry I was being an ass before.”

“You weren’t.”

“I was. I got so obsessed with Nickon. I’m not sure why, looking back on it.” She shook her head. “I don’t like who I’ve been these last weeks. It was like I couldn’t see anyone else anymore.”

“You told Mum about what happened with Winden?”

“No. Should I?”

This reversal of the usual state of affairs (Meg asking _her_ for advice) seemed to take Clover by surprise, though she didn’t say anything about it. “Not if you don’t want to. But I wonder if you’d feel better for telling her about it.”

Meg nodded. “I do want to, but it’s so hard to talk to her alone. She won’t be angry, will she?”

“Not with you. I could get the little’uns out of the way if you wanted.”

Meg looked over at the children. Martin was covered with flour and she tutted. “Look at you. You need a good dusting.” She went to him and started wiping his face with her handkerchief in spite of his squeals of protest.

“That’s sorted,” Mrs Delver said, coming back into the kitchen. “Just Maizey and Poppy having a spat.”

Clover nudged Meg’s shoulder. She was expecting an answer to her offer. Meg looked up at her and gave a small nod.

This was all Clover needed. She clapped her hands and walked over to their mother with an air of authority. “If you can be doing without your bakers I was thinking the four of us could go and find some greenery to decorate the hole.”

“Dad was going to take us up tomorrow,” Martin said.

“Well I’ve seen how the gentry decorate their smial, so I reckon I could make ours look just as grand. It’ll be a surprise for Dad,” Clover said.

Mrs Delver snorted. “He’ll like that; having our hole modelled after the gentry.”

“If he din’t want the hole modelled after the gentry he should’ve been here to stop us. Where is he?”

“Gone to see Mr Warren. They’re talking about sending word to the Mayor to get him to sort out the Men,” Mrs Delver said, rolling her eyes. “You can take as many as want to go.” She straightened up as the three children ran into the corridor to get their cloaks. “You sure you’ll be able to manage them all on your own? Why don’t you give her a hand, Meg?”

“I can cope,” Clover said quickly. ~~~~

Meg’s anxiety was rising a little, but she knew that in order to make it go away completely she would need to tell her mother. “Thank you, Clover,” she said.

Clover smiled briefly at her before following the children out. There was the rising sound of feet and chatter in the hallway, which was cut off abruptly as the door shut behind them.

“Can’t remember the last time it was just the two of us in, lass,” Mrs Delver said.

“Me neither…” Meg’s hands were trembling. She knew what came next, and if she didn’t do it now she didn’t think she ever would. It would never get any easier.

“You feeling all right, Meg?” Mrs Delver said. “You’ve gone right pale.”

“I’m all right,” Meg said, but pulled out a chair to sit down. She was starting to feel lightheaded. “Mum, there’s something I need to tell you…”

* * *

The trip to the _Green Dragon_ had given Tiger Lily a great deal to think about and she had spent most of the next day mulling it over.

Of most concern was the incident in the barn. Half of her thought process was made up of unsettled, frantic recollections in which she went over the events again and again to try and completely understand everything that had happened. The other half was imagining what might have happened if she hadn’t panicked and asked Rob to stop. The imaginings weren’t unpleasant. Perhaps she could try being a hussy, just for a little bit, to see what it was like…

“Are you all right?” her mother said, making Tiger Lily start.

“Yes,” she squeaked, tilting her book up to make it look like she was still reading.

“You look flushed,” Mrs Took said, setting her embroidery in her lap. “You’re not coming down with a fever, are you?”

“No.”

She tried to move her mind away from the barn and instead focus on the other thing that had been bothering her about the previous evening: the brief conversation she’d had with Lavender Hobble. The way Lavender had looked at Tiger Lily when she admitted she’d been keeping her courtship from Sango was unsettling. It had been an unpleasant mixture of concern and confusion.

She had come to realise that there was something off about her keeping her courtship secret from Sango. It wasn’t something she had planned or done deliberately. It had just sort of happened; the result of inaction, rather than a deliberate decision. Until now she hadn’t thought about it much, but now she could think about little else. And the more she thought about it, the sillier it seemed.

One of the few things she was sure of was that Sango loved her. He wasn’t _in_ love with her, that was something else entirely. But he loved her none the less. He might have told her it would be silly to try and court Rob, but he would understand once she explained it to him. He would be happy that she was happy. He also knew about love, and she was feeling a little lost at the moment. Sango would be able to help her.

* * *

Meg stared at the wall blankly as her mother held her. There was some comfort from the arms around her shoulders, but that was all there was. She was empty of anything else.

“I’m not angry,” Mrs Delver said, placing a hand on Meg’s head. “I want you to understand that I’m not angry. But I wish you’d told me.”

“I know,” Meg said in a small voice. “I did’t want to upset you.”

The arms drew back and Mrs Delver pulled a chair out to sit facing Meg. “I’m your mother. You can’t upset me, not properly.”

“I thought you’d be disappointed that I was ruined, that I’d brought shame on the family…”

Her mother pulled her into another hug, one hand stroking Meg’s hair as she shushed her like a baby.

“There’s plenty who are with child when they’re wed,” she said. “There’s no shame in it. But he wouldn’t wed you, an’ that’s his fault, not yours. You can’t disgrace the family, you are the family.”

“But I’m the eldest,” Meg said. “I’m meant to be the one you don’t need to worry about. If I’d died taking that stuff you’d have had to explain to everyone what happened.”

Mrs Delver let Meg go and looked her in the face. “ _That’s_ what you were worried about? Not that you could’ve died?”

“No. Yes. I don’t…” Meg leaned forward and covered her face with her hands. Even now she couldn’t admit that the thought of throwing her own life away was less distressing than burdening her family with an illegitimate child.

Mrs Delver tucked a lock of Meg’s hair behind her ear. “You’ve always been such a help to me, even when you were small. Looking after the little’uns, helping me around the smial, making me cups of tea… I’ve told you those early years were hard, but they would’ve been so much harder if it weren’t for you. I always thought how lucky I was to have you.” She cupped Meg’s face in her hands. There were the beginnings of tears in her eyes. “I ask too much of you. And I am so, so sorry that I’ve caused you harm.”

“You haven’t,” Meg said, dismayed. “You’re so good, Mum.”

“I’ve let you down.”

“No.”

They hugged again and for a few moments Meg was a faunt and nothing mattered other than that she was in her mother’s arms. She was safe.

“Could you tell Dad for me?” Meg whispered.

“If you want me to.”

“Don’t let him hurt Winden.”

Mrs Delver scoffed. “I’ll hurt Master Hale myself when I get the chance.”

Meg leaned out of her arms to look up at her mother’s face. “No, please. Don’t.”

“All right. But I don’t think you’ll need to worry about your father. He’s all thunder without the lightening. Now: you”—she pulled Meg to her feet, turned her around and fiddled with the knot of her apron—“are going to spend the rest of the day doing something for yourself.”

Meg’s weak protests were ignored as she was ushered out of the door and found herself left on the step.

Something for herself…

No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t think of anything.

* * *

Tiger Lily had set out for Overhill soon after first breakfast. Sango’s new home, The Rookery, was a snug smial built into the side of a low hillock. It was old, and smaller than the house at Boffin’s Farm. The panelled walls were tarnished, there were tiles missing from the back of the fireplace and in places the carpets were so bare it was impossible to tell what colour they had once been. Still, it was warm, and cosy in a shabby sort of way. Sango was at his writing desk in his bedroom when she arrived.

“Hello, Tills. I wasn’t expecting you today.”

“I just thought I’d drop by,” she said, smiling to mask her nerves. His room gave them the privacy she needed for this conversation. There was no excuse not to go through with it now.

“Nice to see you regardless. If you like we can go for a walk once I’ve finished this,” he said, looking back down at the paper before him. “Can you think of a rhyme for ‘anguish’?”

“Uh…” Tiger Lily perched on the edge of his bed. She wrung her fingers as she listened to the scratching of Sango’s pen “‘Languish’?”

“Hmm…” He tapped his quill against his chin. “That sort of rhymes too well. Who did you bring with you?”

“I came by myself.”

He glanced at her, smiling softly. “Like the old days? If you want a chaperone I could see if Balbus or Aunt Breynia are available, but if they’re busy I’m not sure who else there is. We might be able to get Citrine Lightfoot but it’s not a sure thing. Mother’s visiting Aunt Lobelia so we can’t ask her. Or is this just a flying visit?”

“I don’t know…”

Something about the tone of her voice must have alerted him to her anxiety because he looked up from his paper and turned in his chair to face her. After examining her face for a moment he turned his chair and sat leaning his head to the side, pressing his fingers to his temple.

“You’re worried about something,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

Tiger Lily turned her face away, unable to stand the way he was looking at her.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” he said. His face was open and patient. “Maybe I could help.”

Tiger Lily took a deep breath. She had to say it. There was no way to ease into it. “There’s nothing the matter. I’ve started courting, that’s all.”

Whatever reply he had been expecting, this evidently wasn’t it. He blinked and drew his head back a little as his eyebrows rose up his forehead, where they became obscured by his messy locks. “Oh. Gosh.” Then his face relaxed into a grin. “Congratulations. So who’s your dark-eyed beau, then? Is it Monno Grubb? He’s a fine fellow but he’s been unattached for such a long time.”

“It’s not him. It’s... Um…” She twisted her fingers together. “Rob Delver.”

Sango’s grin froze in a startled rictus before slowly disappearing. He laughed uncertainly. “Surely not. You’re joking.”

“No.”

Sango’s mouth hardened into a thin line. He turned away from her and half-covered his face with a hand, closing his eyes. Tiger Lily stood by his chair and put a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, Rowley. I know you said it would be a silly thing to do but—”

“Do your parents know?” he said, opening his eyes and looking up at her.

“He can hardly ask for permission properly with Father away.”

“There’s your mother.”

She didn’t have a proper reply for this, so she turned away from him, folding her arms protectively around her.

“Tiger Lily,” Sango said seriously, stepping in front of her and gently resting his hands on her shoulders. “He didn’t… He didn’t bully you into it did he? You can tell me.”

“No!” she said, half-laughing at the absurdity of _Rob_ bullying her into anything.

Sango huffed and folded his arms. “I don’t know why you’re laughing, I can’t think of any other reason you would have consented to this. How long has it been going on?”

She shuffled her feet, embarrassed at her accidental deception. “We started about the time you moved to Overhill.” ~~~~

He opened his mouth as his eyes widened. “Why have you kept it a secret for so long? How?”

“We try to keep out of the way when we meet. You know I find crowds difficult.”

Sango groaned and covered his eyes.

“What?” she said.

He inhaled sharply through his nose and brought his hands away from his face. He made firm eye contact with her. “Your parents should know.”

They were silent as the words solidified in Tiger Lily’s mind and she realised their true meaning. She clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palms. “Don’t you dare. It’s not your place to tell them.”

“Someone has to if you won’t. If I don’t tell them and something happens…” He winced and covered his face with his hands again.

“I thought you would understand,” Tiger Lily said, desperately trying to appeal to his sense of comradery. “You and Lavender—”

“I told you, Lavender and I are different!”

“Why?”

“Just leave it, won’t you?” he said.

“Why aren’t you happy for me?” she said, and surprised herself with how angry she was.

He scoffed. “Did you expect me to congratulate you for finding such a match? For putting yourself at such risk? I’ve known you twenty years. And in that time I have lied, and lied, and lied for you. All for the sake of your reputation, which you’re now squandering on some pauper you’ve known for, what, three months?”

Tiger Lily stopped her pacing and turned on him. “Don’t call him that, he worked on your farm. You are such a child sometimes!”

“And you’re not? I specifically told you not to do this. I thought you had enough sense to follow my advice but apparently I was mistaken.”

“But you never told me _why_ you were giving me such advice. You could tell me why now.”

Sango flinched as though he’d been struck across the face. “I’m not the person to have that conversation with you.”

Tiger Lily groaned. “No one ever tells me anything. Why can’t people just tell me things?”

“I am telling you that lad will ruin your reputation. Isn’t that enough? Why would you even consider courting a lad like him?”

“I don’t know…” Tiger Lily hesitated as she tried to put her feelings into words. “Because he’s kind and gentle and thinks I’m worth something…”

“There are plenty of suitable lads who are gentle and kind and whatever else you want. But why _him_? You wanted an exotic diversion to get one over on your mother?”

Tiger Lily flushed with indignation. “That’s not it at all!” Her anger simmered as she tried to compose herself, and tucked a stray hair behind her ear with a shaking hand. “And what if I do need an outlet? I can’t take the endless needlework and lace. Without hunting I’m just watching the clock tick down forever. Stuck.” She kicked a sturdy wooded trunk in the corner of the room.

“And what? You think you’d be happier as a farmer’s wife?”

Her toes were stinging but she did her best to hide it. “I don’t know! Maybe. What else am I supposed to do? Wait by the side of the dance hall and watch while all the other lasses are chosen? And then to be blamed at the end when I’m left without a partner!”

“I can help,” Sango said, his voice verging on panicked delirium. “I can introduce you to my friends, any lad you want, but you need to stop seeing that—”

Not wanting to hear the rest, Tiger Lily turned on her heel and marched out of the room. “I’m leaving.”

Sango followed her. “You don’t want to listen to me because you know I’m right! Look!” He managed to slip in front of her in the hallway. “I honestly don’t think you understand the danger your putting yourself in. What about your future? What about your family?”

She brushed him aside and stormed down the corridor. “I can’t talk to you when you’re being an ass.”

“Tilly, please!” he shouted after her as she slammed the front door shut. She stood on the step, hugging herself and trembling a little. She realised she’d forgotten to take her cloak with her but couldn’t face going back in to retrieve it. She ran around to the stables to get her pony and get home as quickly as she could. Once she got there she could go about her day and pretend this conversation had never happened. Home might be boring, but at least it was safe.

* * *

Meg passed another brick along to Maizey, where it got passed down to the rapidly growing walls of the house. The bricks were heavy and Meg’s back and legs were aching. Dusk was settling now and Mr Delver approached the group of Men who had been supervising them (in the sense that a few of them had been sat on the verge across the road from the houses, smoking and drinking amongst themselves). They had consented to letting the Hobbits go home, though they hadn’t phrased it so politely.

“I’m going up to the farm to collect the little’uns,” Mr Delver said, rubbing his shoulder absentmindedly. “See you lot back at the smial.”

“Actually, Dad,” Meg said just as he started to walk away. “I’ll be a bit later than normal. Tell Mum I’ll be along.”

“Aye?” Jonson said. “Calling on Nick Hobble, are you?”

She shrugged before heading off with a breezy step. “There’s just something I need to do.”

Even from outside the Hobble’s house Meg could hear that someone was in the workshop. She pushed the door open to find Nickon alone inside, shaping an overly-large spoke that was probably intended for one of the Men’s waggons. He hadn’t noticed that there was someone in the door way.

“Evening,” she said.

Nick started and spun around. When he saw who it was he sighed and leaned on the work bench. “Blimey, Meg, you gave me a fright.”

“Why’re you still here, Nick? You should’ve finished long ago.”

He shrugged as he put his plane down and wiped his hands with a cloth. “I like my work.”

She folded her arms and leaned against the doorpost. “If you was never interested in courting me you should’ve just said from the start. It would’ve saved both of us a lot of bother.”

He froze, and looked at her sheepishly. “I’m really sorry. I was foolish, not thinking about… things. I tried to undo it, but it was already too late and…” He trailed off and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I hope I din’t do you too much harm.”

“Not you.” She sighed. “I’m sorry myself. I din’t listen to you. I was only thinking about what I wanted, not what you wanted.”

“That wasn’t why I din’t like you,” he said quickly. “I just can’t be courting right now.”

“Aye.”

He smiled uncertainly at her. “We all right, then?”

“I reckon we are. You do care about Jack, though, don’t you?”

He laughed nervously. He didn’t seem to be sure how she meant that. “Aye. He’s my friend.”

He seemed sincere. Meg believed him. “Good. Is Lavender in?”

“Was in the house last I saw her.”

Meg gave Nick a final glance before she stepped through to the house. Mr Hobble was stoking the fire while Lavender was knitting in a well-loved armchair.

“Hello, Lavender.”

She nodded. “Meg.”

Meg sat in the seat closest to her, not sure how to proceed. “How’s work?”

“Hmm.” Lavender didn’t take her eyes away from her clicking needles. “You wouldn’t rather talk to Nick about it?”

“We talked a little just now. Don’t think we’ll be seeing much of each other after today.”

“Ah.” In spite of her coldness, a tender look passed over Lavender’s face and she turned her eyes up to Meg’s. “You all right?”

“Aye. I never thanked you for helping me after Winden left.”

Mr Hobble straightened himself up, holding his creaking back as he got to his feet. “What’s that?” he said.

“Nothing, Dad,” Lavender said. “Lass stuff.”

This was enough to deter him from asking more questions and he went to join Nick in the workshop.

“I only did what anyone would do. Why’re you bringing it up now?” Lavender said.

“I wanted to. Thank you. Sorry that I’ve been a bit off these last weeks. It wasn’t your fault. I should’ve listened when you suggested I stop seeing Nick.”

Lavender shrugged. “Everyone’s allowed to be a bit off now and then.” She tucked the knitting into a basket of wool at her feet. “I need more blue. You fancy going down to _Button’s_?”

Meg smiled as she followed Lavender to the door. “I don’t have any money.”

Lavender grinned wickedly as she threw her cloak around her shoulders. “Well, Mrs Button doesn’t know that.”

Meg left the Hobbles' house feeling much freer than she had done in a long time. She still wasn’t quite happy yet. Not deep down. But she knew that if she tried hard enough she would be able to get there one day. It was just a matter of patience.


	30. The Guileless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A posset is a mix of warm milk and alcohol that was historically used as a cold remedy. Obviously it doesn’t work, although it does sound delicious.

When Tiger Lily loosed her arrow, the bowstring struck her arm, sending a sharp pain across the bare flesh. She gritted her teeth and let out a long hissing noise.

“You all right?” Rob said, rubbing her back.

“Yes,” she said in a tight voice, fiddling with the strings of her leather armguard. It had slipped down too close to her wrist and left the crook of her arm unprotected. “Useless thing.” She threw the armguard to the ground and looked through the hedge to where the pheasant had been a few seconds before. “Did I get it?”

“Not this time.”

Tiger Lily groaned. She’d only managed one grouse all evening. Her frustration was increasing with every miss, which in turn was making it harder to meet her mark. “All right. Let’s go over the to other side of the hill. There are trees there, we might get a squirrel.”

“I think it’s time to head back,” Rob said, slinging the single grouse over his shoulder. “You’re getting worked up.”

“I’m not.”

“Just a bit.”

“But’s it’s Yule and your family will—”

“Everything for Yule’s been paid for, an’ Mum’s getting suspicious about where the money’s coming from. Come on.” He held a hand out to her. After some hesitation she took it, secretly relieved to get away from such a disastrous hunt.

They stopped when they reached the oak tree they usually met and parted under. Rob put his hands on his waist, shoulders back. His shirt was slightly too tight and Tiger Lily caught a glimpse of bare skin through one of the gaps between the straining buttons.

“When will I see you again?” she said to distract herself from contemplations on the benefits of hussy-dom.

“We’re a tad busy with getting everything ready so I was thinking the first day of Yuletide,” Rob said. “We could spend the morning with our families an’ then get away in the afternoon? What do you think?”

“It will have to be the evening, I think. Uncle Hortenbold and Aunt Mertensia are going to call on us to see Father.”

“Aye? When’s he home?”

“He didn’t give a day, but he said it would be before Yuletide,” she said, and bit her lower lip, not wanting to say out loud what she knew: that there had been no word on when/if he had left the Great Smials.

“That’s still three more days.”

“Mmm.”

“Is that why you’ve been a bit off tonight?” Rob said. “You’re worried about your dad?”

The truth was that Tiger Lily was still perturbed from her fight with Sango that morning. But she wouldn’t tell Rob that. She didn’t want him to know the horrible things Sango had said.

“More or less,” she said.

He placed one of his hands on her cheek and she closed her eyes. She put her hand to his and tried to focus on the sensation of his rough, warm fingers. Nothing else needed to exist for the moment.

He kissed her neck and even with her eyes shut she knew he was smiling.

“We’ll have to be more careful when he gets back. He’ll be coming after me with a longbow.”

Tiger Lily smiled at the thought of _when_ , not _if_. “If you’d met him you’d know how funny that is. He’s as threatening as a sponge cake. You’d like him.” She still couldn’t bring herself to say ‘You _will’_. Tiger Lily groaned and buried her face in Rob’s chest. “What are we doing?”

“What?”

This wasn’t the right time for that conversation. She pulled away from him and stood on her toes to kiss his cheek. “Nothing. I’ll see you at Yuletide.”

They agreed to meet at nine o’clock and wished each other a merry Yule. She wanted to say ‘I love you’ but couldn’t quite manage it.

And they parted.

* * *

_To Mrs Peony Took,_

_I hope you won’t think me impertinent for writing, but Aferbold isn’t in a fit state to do so himself. His head cold has turned into a flu and he’s not very coherent at the moment (though I’m uncertain if it’s the fever or tipsiness brought on from the number of possets he’s been taking). He is expected to recover fully, however he isn’t currently well enough to travel. I’m sorry to inform you that he will not be able to return to you for Yuletide._

_He had been planning to undertake the journey to Bywater regardless and it took a great deal of convincing to get him to stay._

_I have spoken with the Thain’s lady and we are in agreement that it would be ill advised for you and your children to travel to the Smials due to the Men, who occupy several encampments on the land between Bywater and Tookborough. If you decide to make the journey you will, of course, be made welcome at the Smials but we believe it would be safer for you to remain in the village._

_You will be informed as quickly as possible if there is any change in Aferbold’s condition. I wish you a joyful Yule, despite the circumstances, and hope that the next letter I write to you will bring more agreeable news._

_Yours Faithfully,_

_Ivy Took_

* * *

Alone in the morning room, Tiger Lily stared at the family tree that hung above the fireplace. The six Yule candles had been placed along the mantelpiece, greenery carefully arranged around their bases. The final candle obscured her father’s name from view. She was supposed to be completing an embroidery that was _supposed_ to be her gift to Bandobold on the final day of Yuletide, but she was having trouble concentrating.

The letter describing her father’s illness had arrived a few hours earlier, the morning after the unfruitful hunting trip with Rob. Her mother had already decided that they weren’t going to travel to the Great Smials. “We’ll keep home and hearth warm for his return,” she’d said. But the thought of Tiger Lily’s father being all alone in the sickbed at Yule was too troubling for her to be productive.

The land between Bywater and Tuckborough was hilly and the only roads were half-trodden paths that weren’t used frequently enough for anyone to bother maintaining them. She made the journey very infrequently, and when she did, always went in the carriage with her family. Of course, were she to go by herself she would have to go on a single pony. Her pony, Posy, wasn’t young, so Tiger Lily would need to set out early in order to get to the Great Smials before dark. The Men could be a problem, but if she brought her longbow she ought to be all right. Not that she would ever think of doing anything so unrespectable.

No. Certainly not.

The front door opened and a familiar voice reached her ears. She scowled, tossed her embroidery hoop aside and stood up in preparation for receiving Sango.

Tiger Lily brushed down her skirt and folded her hands as he entered in order to look as dignified as possible. She planned for her first words to him to be formal and detached to show that she wasn’t upset anymore. But when she saw his haggard expression, unkempt hair and thrown-on clothes, all she could think to say was, “You look awful.”

“I didn’t get much sleep,” he murmured, looking around the room like he’d never been there before. “Is your mother in?”

“She’s paying calls.”

He nodded distractedly. He was still wearing his outdoor coat and was fiddling with the brim of his hat. “Good… That’s good.”

“Nothing’s happened, has it?” Tiger Lily said, concern creeping in through her indignation. “Are your family all right?”

“Yes. They’re fine.” He noticed the door was open behind him and leaned on it heavily to shut it, as though even this simple act exhausted him. Eventually he turned back to Tiger Lily, his eyes glassy with worry and fatigue. “You need to stop seeing that lad.”

She rolled her eyes. This again. “If that’s all you’ve come here to say then you can see yourself out.”

“No.” With purposeful steps he came to stand directly in front of her. Sango was short for a lad, only a few inches taller than Tiger Lily, and they made eye contact easily. “You were right. You deserve an explanation as to why you shouldn’t court him and if you want me to be the person to explain it then I will. I won’t tell anyone else; I don’t want you to get in trouble. Only us.”

“Oh.” She hadn’t been expecting this and now, presented with the very thing she’d wanted, she wasn’t sure what to do with it. “All right then.”

“What I need you to understand,” he said softly, taking her hands, “is that he does not mean you well.”

Tiger Lily hadn’t been expecting this. She smiled, and laughed nervously. He couldn’t be serious. “What are you talking about? Of course he does…”

But Sango’s expression remained sincere. “If his intentions were honourable he would have spoken to your mother. He wouldn’t insist on meeting in private.”

She shook her head as she started to panic and her breathing quickened against her will. “No. It’s because he’s frightened Mother would disapprove…”

“It’s because your mother would try to protect you from him.”

Tiger Lily’s breaths were coming too quickly and her heart was pounding uncomfortably hard in her chest. None of it made any sense. “Protect me from what? I don’t understand.” She pressed her hands to her eyes as she tried to suppress the dread that was threatening to choke her.

“Easy…” Sango said, putting his hands on her arms and gently pulling her to sit down on the settee. “Deep breaths, remember?”

She did her best to slow her breathing and allowed Sango to take her hands again. “I don’t understand,” she said again, quietly, once her anxious spell had passed.

Sango swallowed, and continued in a soft, steady voice. “There’s a certain way of doing things, you know? Courtships, and th-then marriage, and then everything that comes after marriage. Children and so on.” His face had taken on a reddish hue, and he was fumbling his words. “That’s the proper way. You understand that, don’t you?”

She nodded.

“Well, lads of Master Delver’s station don’t adhere to that propriety. They either don’t know the proper way to conduct themselves, or don’t care to follow it. He’s using you.”

“No, he’s not!” She pulled her hands away from his. “Why are you saying all this? You’re lying.”

“I’m only trying to help you,” he said. “I don’t want you to get hurt.” He placed a hand on her cheek, and brushed a stray curl away with his thumb. “You’re gentle, and kind, and sheltered. And to a certain kind of person that makes you an easy target.” He was being so irritatingly calm and reasonable. She wished he would shout at her. That would give her something to fight against. But he was saying everything with such certainty.

“For what?” she said, her voice croaky from her constricted throat.

“For him to take your money and your maidenhood. Then when he’s got what he wants he’ll abandon you to face the consequences alone.”

Tiger Lily buried her face in her hands as her cheeks and forehead burned. It wasn’t possible that she and Sango were having this conversation. It was too strange to be real.

“Oh, sweet…”

He tried to put his arms around her but she pushed him away. “No.” She stared at the opposite wall as she tried to process what had been said. “That can’t be right…” she said, looking at Sango. “He cares for me. I know he does,” but after a moment’s thought she amended, “I think he does…”

“Has he said so?”

“Yes.” But when she scoured over her memories of their time together she found there weren’t any conclusive declarations of affection, like the heroes made in Sango’s love stories. “Well, not in his words, but his deeds…”

“Such things can be affected,” Sango said.

“He’s never asked me for money,” Tiger Lily said quickly. Probably too quickly, but at the moment this was all she had.

“He’s never asked for anything?”

“He asked for some shortbread once…” she said. “I give him some of my kills when we go hunting together. Does that count?”

“If he’s realised you’re kind enough to give him food without question, then it’s only a matter of time. He asks for shortbread, then he asks for meat, then he asks for money. That’s how it begins.”

Tiger Lily couldn’t speak. Everything with Rob had taken months to make and now it was unravelling in the course of an afternoon.

“What about the other thing?” Sango said in a hushed voice. “He hasn’t tried to… to seduce you, has he?”

Tiger Lily curled forward and hid her face in her skirt to hide her expression. She tried to speak, but all that came out was a whimper. 

“Oh…” Sango’s voice was trembling and his arms enfolded around her, tight and protective. “Did you let him?”

“No…” Tiger Lily groaned.

The tension in Sango’s arms relaxed. His relief was audible in his voice. “That’s good. You see, if anyone thinks you’ve been ruined by him it will be so difficult for you to find a husband when the time comes. Your family’s reputation would be ruined.”

Tiger Lily drew her face away from her skirt to look at him again. His face was glowing with concern for her, he was so sure about this. Surety was something Tiger Lily never had much of. A vision of herself, an old spinster alone in the Maids Quarters, passed before her mind’s eye.

“It’s not true, is it?” she said. “He doesn’t really mean me harm?”

“Yes, it’s true,” Sango said gently.

“What do I do?” she whispered.

“You stop seeing that lad. Today.”

“No!” Tiger Lily stood, clutching her skirt. “I can’t…”

“You need to,” Sango said, “while your reputation is still intact.”

“But…” She screwed her eyes tight shut. Nothing made sense, no matter which way she looked at it. “I think you should go now.”

“Tills…”

“I said I’d like you to leave!” Tiger Lily left the room and flew to her bedchamber, heedless of the maidservants she passed in the corridor. She shut the door behind her and started to pace up and down. She didn’t know how she would ever find rest again. She was caught. It didn’t matter what she did, she would be making the wrong decision: risking her future or abandoning Rob.

She couldn’t believe Sango was lying to her. Sango: the person she knew better than anyone, including herself; her source of comfort and companionship; her best and only friend. She knew unequivocally that he loved her and she had seen in his face that he wanted to help her.

But Rob was the only person who had ever looked at her like _that_. She couldn’t bring herself to believe that the kind way he spoke to her and the gentleness of his actions were all a lie.

 _Why else would he want you?_ a treacherous voice in the back of her head said. _What else could you give him?_ _Are you so arrogant that you think he honestly wants you? He can’t care for you when there’s nothing worth caring for._

She turned towards her dressing table. Through the shawl over her mirror she could make out her indistinct reflection. There was her shapeless nose, round face, dull brown eyes and infuriating hair. Dressed like a child and paralyzed with indecision, she was pathetic.

_How could he look at you and see something desirable?_

It had all been a deluded fantasy borne of ignorance. She had fooled herself into believing she knew things she had no understanding of and had paid the price. What else could she have expected? She had ignored Sango’s advice, kindly given, when he knew so much more than her. She had been so naïve…

The morning of the first day of Yuletide passed much as every other. There had been the exchanging of presents and they had sung one of the old songs as her mother lit the first Yule candle. The usual meals had been served (albeit much diminished from last year), with the extra place laid out at the table. This was traditional, in case anyone in need should come to the door in need of food and warmth. A small part of her thought her father might arrive during dinner and take the empty place, but of course that didn’t happen.

As it drew closer to nine Tiger Lily grew increasingly uneasy. She couldn’t stop imagining Rob sat alone in the dark and cold under the oak tree. But she couldn’t risk going to see him again. He would try and talk her out of leaving him and she would fall for it, like she always did. Sango had said she mustn’t see him again, so that was what she’d do.

But eventually she couldn’t stand it anymore; sitting in the morning room, watching the clock. She made her excuses and retired early, but couldn’t find comfort. It was that old, burning anxiety that infected her mind and flesh and would not grant her rest. No matter how she tried to distract herself, staring at her bedroom ceiling, all she could think of was Rob. She listened as the rest of the household went to bed. And then there was silence.

Tiger Lily started as someone knocked on her window. She sat up and stared at the curtains. Sango hadn’t come to her window since he moved to Overhill. Perhaps she had imagined it.

The knocking came again and she rose from the bed. She took the shawl from over her mirror and wrapped it about her shoulders as she approached the window. Drawing the curtains aside she found Rob was stood outside, looking cold, sheepish and expectant. They made eye contact and Tiger Lily froze up. It hadn’t occurred to her that this could happen and there was no one she could ask for help. Avoiding Rob was one thing but to have him stood outside her window—real and alive and unpredictable—was something else completely.

He mimed for her to open the window and Tiger Lily reluctantly undid the catch. She pushed the window open and tugged the shawl tightly around her shoulders. The cold was piercing and she could see every breath she took.

Rob had his coat wrapped close to him, with his hands tucked into his sleeves. His shoulders were hunched and his arms folded across his chest. Tiger Lily tried not to look him in the eye.

“You all right?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Hope you don’t mind me coming here, but I remembered you said about Master Sango coming to your window. I was worried you might be sick or something’d happened with one of the Big Folk…”

Tiger Lily said nothing, but kept her arms folded and her face turned down.

“You had a nice Yule so far?”

“Yes,” she mumbled in the direction of the windowsill.

“Nothing’s wrong with you or yours?”

“No.”

They fell into silence. Tiger Lily didn’t think she wanted to know how he was looking at her. She wasn’t supposed to be talking to him. He wasn’t supposed to be here. She would open herself up to her own foolishness, like she always did. She was a different version of herself when she was with Rob, and she didn’t know what that irresponsible, love-struck tweenager would do.

“Why din’t you come?” he said.

Tiger Lily turned her head further away from him. This was painful.

“What’s up with you?” he said, increasingly impatient. “Did you forget? Could you not get away?”

She screwed her eyes shut and brought the shawl up to cover her mouth and nose.

“I waited the best part of an hour for you! It’s bloody freezing out here! I made you this for Yule.”

There was the sound of his hand being brought down on the windowsill but Tiger Lily didn’t dare open her eyes to see what he’d put there.

“Ain’t you going to say you’re sorry? You say sorry to everything!”

Still she said nothing.

“Why won’t you talk to me?” he shouted.

It wasn’t going to work. He wasn’t going to just walk away in silence and the longer he was here the more likely he was to be noticed by someone. Tiger Lily did her best to look at him and ignore the tearing feeling in her chest. “I can’t see you anymore,” she said.

The anger that clouded his features dissolved immediately. His eyes took on the look of a hurt child and his lips parted in shock. “What?”

She turned away again, gripping the shawl as tightly as she could.

“What’s happened? Is it your family?”

She shook her head.

“It’s not about what happened in the barn, is it?” he said gently, leaning forward on the window sill. “I thought we’d sorted that out. We don’t have to do nothing you don’t want to…”

“It’s not that…” she groaned, turning her head as far as she could to the side to avoid looking at him.

“Then what?”

“Nothing!”

“Well, that’s not true, is it?” He stared at her hard. All she could hear was his heavy, controlled breathing. “That it, then? You were going to leave without saying anything, without even saying goodbye? Without even a ‘Sod off, Rob’?”

“You need to leave,” she said, reaching out to pull the window closed.

“I’m sorry if I did aught to upset you,” he said desperately, touching her arm. “Tell me what I did and we can talk about it.”

“Don’t!” She pulled away from him, glaring. “It’s wicked,” she said, gripping the window frame so hard her nails sunk into the wood, “and repulsive.”

He stared back at her, looking like a dog that had just been kicked by its owner. “Lil,” he said, his voice trembling, “can’t we talk?”

“No!” she said, hearing the wobble in her own voice. “Just go away!”

She pulled the window shut with a slam and drew the curtains closed as quickly as she could. She sat on the window seat with her back to the wall, hunched forward.

He hammered on the glass again. “Lil!”

Tiger Lily stayed where she was. She had cut off the conversation without falling for his manipulations and she couldn’t risk opening up to him again. Still, she was too frightened to move. She waited for another knock on the window or call of her name, but none arrived.

Eventually she gathered enough courage to tug aside the curtain and look outside. Though the dark was thick, it was clear that Rob had gone. She wasn’t sure what she was hoping for.

She returned to bed, but finding sleep was harder than ever. Her heart was pounding and she felt a little sick.

After some time she noticed a dim golden ring around her door. She got up and padded out into the corridor. The fragile, flickering light was coming from the door to the morning room, open a crack. The rest of the house was dark and Tiger Lily padded towards the light.

Her mother was sat on a settee. Before her was an open box, polished and inlayed with a pattern of flowers. It was filled with letters and papers, which she was reading by candlelight. She was wearing her nightgown and her hair fell over her shoulder in a thick braid. The door creaked as Tiger Lily leaned against it, causing her mother to look up.

“Hello, dear. I thought you’d retired hours ago.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“You look a little pale. Do you feel all right?”

“I don’t know…”

Her mother watched her closely, and extended an arm to her. “Come on.”

Tiger Lily willingly went to sit by her. Everything was wrong and she welcomed the uncomplicated maternal comfort. “What are you doing?” she said.

“I was just going over some old letters. Mostly between me and your father.” She smiled. “We courted for a year before we were married. With me in Longbottom and him in Bywater, we wrote quite a few.”

“Do you miss him?”

“Yes.”

Tiger Lily noticed some papers that stood out. They were obviously much older and crinkled, unlike the well-kept letters in her mother’s and father’s hands.

“What are those?”

“Oh, those are the maps old Mad Baggins left your father.” She laughed. “You’ll like this.” She brought the maps out, still lovingly tied with string, and handed them to Tiger Lily.

She took them and read the label.

_For the sons of HOLTBOLD TOOK, to be divided between them; may they get much use out of them, B.B._

Her mother was pursing her lips, her eyes merry with amusement. “Hortenbold didn’t want them. But I don’t think your father ever understood the joke.”

Tiger Lily wasn’t sure she did either. But on closer inspection she realised that these maps were for places she had never heard of before, with place names she didn’t know how to pronounce. Uncle Hortenbold cared about perceived respectability much more than most Tooks, and her father never ventured far from home if he could help it. Perhaps she did understand the joke after all…

“Tell me what’s troubling you,” Mrs Took said.

Tiger Lily dropped the maps down among the letters and took a few moments to organise her words before she said them. “Mother, how… how do you know if—when you’re in love with someone? Really _in_ love with them, I mean. Not just ordinary love or childish fancies.”

Her mother inhaled, and laughed nervously. “Now there’s a question. Do you have anyone specific in mind?”

“No. I just— I’m so confused.” Her voice was on the edge of tears but she couldn’t pull it back. “I thought I knew and then I didn’t, and now I don’t know how I’ll ever know if I’m in love with someone truly. So I’d really like to know.”

“I never wondered that myself. I always thought I’d know when I reached it. And I did, as it turned out.” Mrs Took brought Tiger Lily to her side, and let her rest her head on her shoulder. “What’s brought this on?”

She stared listlessly ahead at the cold hearth and burnt Yule candle. There was too much going on in her head to describe. She couldn’t tell her mother about Rob now. What would be the point? “Me and Sango had a fight,” she said quietly.

“Ah.” She ran her fingers through Tiger Lily’s wayward hair. “I had thought for this to be a surprise but I’ve invited the Boffins here tomorrow. Perhaps while I’m entertaining the grown-ups you and Sango can have a little talk. Would you like that?”

“Yes.” Tiger Lily sighed and snuggled further into her mother’s shoulder. “I feel so strange, Mother. I don’t know what I want and I don’t know what to do. I’m so tired, I just want to go to sleep but I can’t calm down and I don’t know how.”

Mrs Took pulled her into a gentle hug and said nothing. Tiger Lily stayed in the morning room until her mother said she was tired and wanted to retire. Tiger Lily decided that she probably hadn’t been in love with Rob. But she also felt that she could have very easily fallen in love with him one day, probably quite soon. This loss of potential was somehow worse than the idea that she was in love with him already. So she returned to her own room, much calmer than when she’d left, both anticipating and dreading waking up the next day.

* * *

“I am glad you were able to make it down,” Mrs Took said as the Boffins removed their heavy winter coats in the hallway the next day. Tiger Lily was standing a little away from the group, doing her best to keep sight of Sango amongst the constantly moving cluster of Boffins and servants.

“It was kind of you to have us, Peony,” Mrs Boffin said. “Beldo and his family are charming but it is strange to be away from all our dear friends.”

Mr Boffin muttered something and was punished with a shushing from his wife.

“What was that?” Mrs Took said.

“Nothing at all,” Mr Boffin said, smiling coldly. “Any sign of Aferbold?”

“Not yet, no.”

“I’ve heard the Thain keeps a well-stocked library,” Mr Boffin said. “No doubt he’s happily ensconced somewhere in the Great Smials.”

“Yes…” Mrs Took said.

“The smial looks lovely this year,” Sango said, coming forward and taking Mrs Took’s hands with enthusiasm. “It’s been far too long since I’ve seen you; you look so well.”

Mrs Took preened. “Not so well as I once did, but much better for seeing you.”

Sango grinned dazzlingly, but it disappeared once he turned to Tiger Lily, like a cloud passing over the sun. He wasn’t angry, or even sad, but there was a distance between them that hadn’t been there before. He took her hand as though by obligation and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I trust you’re well,” he said, too formally.

“Yes, thank you,” she said.

He let go of her hand and looked around at the greenery that hung on the walls; glossy holly and mistletoe hung with fat white berries. “It’s beautiful. You always know how to arrange them the most artfully,” he said, addressing Mrs Took again.

“Thank you, Master Sango. Why doesn’t Tiger Lily show you the rest of the smial while we take tea?” Mrs Took said, already ushering the other Boffins and Bandobold into the drawing room.

Tiger Lily and Sango looked at each other awkwardly and began their slow walk down the corridor in the same uneasy silence. Mrs Took had left the door to the drawing room open and Tiger Lily didn’t dare say what she wanted when there was a chance the others could hear.

“I’m sorry about your father,” Sango said eventually.

They passed through a doorway the divided the main passage in half. Tiger Lily closed it carefully, cutting them off from the others. ~~~~

“All’s over,” she said. “With me and Master Delver.”

The effect was immediate. The awkward formality washed away and simple, uncomplicated relief shone through. “Really? Tills, you don’t know how glad I am.”

Before Tiger Lily realised what was happening she had started whimpering and there were hot tears running down her face.

“Oh, flower…”

He pulled her into a warm hug. Surrounded by that old, familiar smell, Tiger Lily turned her face into his chest and sobbed unrestrainedly.

“It’s all right. You’re safe,” he murmured.

“I liked him,” Tiger Lily choked between her gasps for breath.

“I know. But it’ll all be for the best in the end, you’ll see.”

When the tears had run dry she drew away from him, carefully keeping her breathing regular so she didn’t dissolve into sobs again. “Tell me I did the right thing,” she said.

“What?”

“I need someone to tell me if I did the right thing or not. Because I don’t feel it at all.”

Sango cupped her face in his hands and looked her steadily in the eyes. “You did what you had to do to protect yourself. Of course it was the right thing.”

He was so certain. In his mind there was no question, so there shouldn’t be any in hers either. But somehow that didn’t make her feel any better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Working title for this chapter was ‘Oh ffs Sango’.


	31. Candle and Mirror

Clover was seething. The fresh, visceral anger that had infected her the night of Nickon’s party had fermented into something more permanent. This was solid. Most days she was able to push it to the back of her head and never let anyone see. But when it built up too much she found that beating rugs was a useful outlet.

This was how she had spent most of the morning. When she was done she trailed into the kitchen, red-faced and filthy. Dalgo was leaning against a worktop, sipping a cup of tea.

“You look like an angry dust mouse,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” Clover said. The basin had a little water left in it and she splashed some over her face.

“No offence intended.”

“I’m sure.” Clover rubbed her wet hands over the back of her neck. She had seen little of the Grubbs over Yule but from all she could tell the celebrations had been muted and quiet. Even now, on the second-to-last day of Yuletide they hadn’t had any other families present. Very un-hobbitlike. “I wanted to get ‘em all clean after Yulet,” she said. “You should be glad of it.”

“I’m exceedingly glad for all you do.”

She smiled. “Aye?”

“Aye.”

Clover wrinkled her nose. “Don’t say ‘aye’, it doesn’t suit your voice.” She realised she had been impertinent and added, “No offence intended.”

“None taken.” There was a crooked smile on his face. Not unattractive.

“Beating the rugs helps me with my letters,” Clover said, pouring herself a much-needed cup of tea.

“Is that so?”

“Aye.” She stood beside him, cupping her red-cold hands around the mug. “Every blow is a letter in the word I’m spelling out in my head.”

“I see. Not the most effective method of learning.”

“I’m doing my best with the time I have.” She looked over the jars and bottles that were lined up along the shelves. The scribbles on the labels rearranged themselves into sounds and words. It was like looking at the world anew, finding understanding in things that had once been meaningless.

“I, Longo Boffin Esq., can vouch that Miss Clover Delver is an honest, hard-working Hobbit of good family and fine character.”

Dalgo raised an eyebrow. “You read your reference.”

“Aye.”

“Do you think it’s a good description of your character?”

“That’s not for me to decide, sir. What do you think?”

He tapped one of his long fingers against the side of his cup. “They’re not the words I would choose to describe you.”

“What words would you use, sir?”

“Small. Angry.” He smiled to himself as though thinking of some private joke. “Vociferous.”

“You know I’m not as clever as you, sir,” Clover said. “You need to help me a little.”

“Taken to expressing yourself loudly and insistently.”

“I see.” It wasn’t a bad summation of her character. She could have done without ‘small’ though.

“And how would you describe me?” he said, a glint in his dark eyes.

Only one word entered Clover’s head. She hesitated a little too long and Dalgo must have seen and understood something of what she was thinking.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me,” he said.

“No.”

“ _Miss Delver_.”

Clover winced. It was no use thinking of a complimentary response, he would know it was a lie. “Mournful,” she said.

Dalgo said nothing. Turning away from Clover he picked up his tea and left the room without looking back.

 _You’ve done it now,_ Clover thought, looking into her tea. _Well bloody done._

* * *

Following her parting from Rob, Tiger Lily had spent the last few days in a melancholy stupor. It had been a long time since she’d experienced a bereavement, but she remembered it being something like this; the sudden altering of your world, everything the same but for that one person, who you would never see again. She hadn’t seen Sango again, and instead spent her time trailing around after her mother, begging to be of use. Eventually her mother had foisted her off on Opal, who had reluctantly taken Tiger Lily with her to visit the Grubbs.

“I’ve been so starved of company,” Abelia said, lounging back on a settee in the Grubb’s parlour. “Mother and Dalgo insisted on a dour celebration but I don’t see why.”

Tiger Lily knew why. And she knew Abelia did too. Unable to think of what to say she turned to Opal, hoping her ever-confident cousin would show her what to think. Opal’s expression was controlled and betrayed no trace of fluster. “I think everyone had a dour Yuletide this year,” she said.

The Grubb’s maidservant entered and set a tray of tea down on the table. Tiger Lily found herself staring at the maid intently. There was something familiar about her and the more Tiger Lily watched the more she wanted to cry. The maid’s eyes were large and brown, but teetered on the edge of hazel. Just like…

She realised Abelia was addressing her and returned her attention to their hostess. Abelia’s expression was largely indifferent but she was either unable or unwilling to mask the mocking look in her eyes. “Didn’t you hear me? I was asking if your father managed to come home for Yule.”

“No.”

“Is it _very_ hard for him in the Great Smials—with his difficulties?”

“Um…” Not sure how to answer she looked to Opal for help but her cousin remained silent. She dropped her head low, not wanting to look Abelia in the eye. “I don’t know…” she said, very quietly.

“She’s been out of sorts all Yuletide,” Opal said, giving Tiger Lily a covert nudge with her elbow. “What’s wrong with you?”

 _Lots of things_ , Tiger Lily thought.

The parlour door was opened unexpectedly by Dalgo Grubb. “Abelia—” He saw the Tooks, froze, and closed the door again without saying anything more.

“Don’t be rude, Dalgo,” Abelia called through the door. She threw herself back on the settee and huffed. “I’m so bored,” she said. “There’s nothing to do.” 

Opal suggested some parlour games, but these were each rejected in turn.

“I know,” Opal said after a little more thought. “There’s this little ritual Pervinca and Bellis showed me when I last stayed in the Great Smials. According to legend,” she said, “if you darken the room and place a single lit candle in front of a mirror, you’ll see the face of your future husband in the glass.”

Tiger Lily frowned. “Surely you’ll only see your own face.”

Abelia rolled her eyes. “That’s why you light the candles.”

“Or,” Opal said, ignoring the other two, “if you’re destined to die a maid you won’t see a face at all. Instead, you’ll only see a skull.”

“But why look in the mirror at all?” Tiger Lily said.

“To know your future, of course. Don’t you want to know yours?”

She fiddled with the lace trim of her bodice. What would there be to see? “I suppose so…”

They went to Abelia’s bedchamber, as it had no windows to be blocked out. Opal retrieved a fresh candle from the maidservant and held it carefully, using one hand to shield it from the air as she walked.

“I want to go first,” Abelia said, eagerly going to sit at her dressing table.

Opal closed the door, blocking the light from the hallway, and reverentially set the candle in front of the mirror. She stood back, placing her hands on the back of Abelia’s chair. “What do you see?”

Tiger Lily was sat in an armchair in the corner of the room. She couldn’t make out Abelia’s expression but she could tell she was sat on the very edge of her seat. “I’m not sure. I see a face but… It’s strange…” Eventually she turned away from the mirror. “Oh, it’s horrible. All shadowy.”

Opal open the door and Abelia blew out the candle.

“Who did you see?” Opal said.

“I don’t know. I hope it wasn’t my husband’s face, the eyes were so sunken in. But it certainly wasn’t a skull. That’s some comfort.” She shook her hair out, the little curls bouncing against each other. “Will you try it, Lily?”

Tiger Lily twisted her fingers together. “I’m not sure. Aren’t you going to try, Opal?”

“I’ve already done it in the Great Smials, silly thing.”

“What did you see?”

“Buffo, of course.”

“Oh, look at her!” Abelia said, laughing. “She’s frightened she’ll see a skull.”

Tiger Lily stood up, jutting her chin forward with uncertain pride. “I’m not afraid of death.”

“Sit here then, and we’ll relight the candle.”

Tiger Lily obediently took her place at the dressing table as Abelia darkened the room again and Opal lit the candle. She kept her eyes cast down, not wanting to look up until she was sure she wouldn’t see her own reflection. But what did she hope to see? A face, of course, but whose: an unknown, or someone she knew? Which was worse?

Opal drew the curtains, and for the time being her entire world existed only in this tiny corner of the room. Tiger Lily slowly lifted her eyes up to the mirror. There was a face. The candlelight danced and cast writhing shadows, deeper than the primal darkness from before the world was made. Still, there was a face, and one that Tiger Lily didn’t like.

“What do you see?” Opal said, stood off somewhere in the bottomless darkness.

Tiger Lily drew a breath. “My own reflection. Nothing more.”

“What?” Abelia said. “That can’t be all, surely?”

“It’s all I see.” The face was undoubtedly hers. Even in the odd, distorting light she could pick out the plump cheeks, shapeless nose and receding chin. A pair of bright brown eyes met her own. She cast them down again. “I think that’s enough.” She carried the candle to the door and opened it, filling the room with light again. “I think I must have done it wrong.”

“How can you look in a mirror wrong?” Abelia said, laughing.

“I have experience,” Tiger Lily said under her breath.

It hadn’t been a skull, which was something she supposed. So she wouldn’t die a maid but without a face of a destined husband she was really no wiser as to what she should be doing. But she would have a husband and they would have children. She would give everything she is to please them. And she would be happy.

* * *

All the passed between Clover and Dalgo in the afternoon were the detached not-quite-pleasantries that passed between master in servant daily in every smial. He sat reading, as he usually did in the evening, while Abelia was going through another of her insipid children’s books with Clover.

“It’s not nice to pick on them that’s weaker than you,” Clover said.

“She’s a Took. Everyone knows the Tooks are strange.”

Clover wondered if Abelia was aware of her own family’s oddities and was choosing not to address it, or if she was saying this with no self-awareness.

“They’re rich enough to be strange,” Clover said.

“Do you know of many wealthy Hobbits to make the comparison, Miss Delver?” Dalgo said.

Clover started slightly, as she had assumed Dalgo wasn’t paying any attention to the conversation. She looked at him from the corner of her eye. “One or two, sir.”

“But we’re not really rich, not like the Tooks,” Abelia said, twirling the pencil between her fingers. “We only have one servant, it’s not like we have a whole staff.”

Clover bit down on her tongue to remind herself not to reply to this.

“Can we stop now?” Abelia said. “I don’t think I can take much more.”

“We’ve only been working twenty minutes. An’ you were saying this afternoon you wanted something to do.”

“Something _interesting_. I don’t see why you want to do this at Yuletide anyway.” She left the room swiftly, leaving Clover to clean up the papers and ink.

“It’s the age,” Dalgo said from his dark corner. “Or so I’ve been told.”

Clover murmured her agreement as she cleared the desk.

“I am surprised you’re here and not with your own family.”

“Six days with ‘em is a bit much,” she said. “Not sure how I managed thirty years without a break. I’m sorry a called you mournful.”

Dalgo’s mouth moved into something that wasn’t quite a frown. His eyes stayed sharp, regardless of what the rest of his features were doing. “It’s not inaccurate.”

“If you say so,” Clover said primly. “But even if you believe it’s true it wasn’t proper for me to say.”

“If _I_ believe it’s true?” he said, pausing as he brought a glass of wine to his lips. “It was you who made the suggestion. Or did you decide to cut close to the bone without even believing what you were saying?”

“There’s no right way to answer that, sir.”

“I wasn’t really expecting you to say anything complimentary,” Dalgo said conversationally. “Why would you? You’ve seen me reduce my younger sister to tears.”

“I…” Clover hesitated, caught between honesty and a need to keep her place. “It’s difficult. I don’t think there’s a person alive who hasn’t hurt another, with or without meaning to. You could be better if you tried.”

“That version of myself… seems very far away at present.”

“You’ve been kind to me.”

He laughed harshly at this.

“You have,” Clover persisted. “You’ve been much kinder than many a gentlehobbit would be, much kinder than you’ve any reason to be. A sensible master would have sent me away by now.”

At this Dalgo snorted, though this time he seemed genuinely amused rather than just dryly sceptical.

“But you’ve kept me on,” Clover said. “And you’ve helped me. I’m not sure you understand how important learning my letters is.”

“I do understand. But it’s not my doing.”

“You’ve helped.”

“Not much.”

“You have,” Clover said. “You went through that book about Buckland with me. You gave me those short stories to read.”

“That’s not much in the way of practical help.”

“Sometimes words can be worth as much as practical help. I know you don’t think so,” she said, inhaling and smoothing out her skirt over her knees. “But I do.”

He smiled gently; a sunbeam through the grey clouds. “I do enjoy your company, Miss Delver.”

“From you, Mr Grubb, I consider that the highest of praise.”

Dalgo watched her carefully. “Dalgo,” he said.

Clover smiled, but took a moment to cast her eyes over the bookshelves, heavy with their words. “Would you help me with my reading this evening? Miss Abelia tries her best, an’ I’m grateful for everything she’s done for me, but she’s so young… She don’t know how to teach as well as you do.”

“Certainly.” Dalgo practically glowed with pride as he rose and started to look over the contents of the book shelves. “Do you have any preference as to content?” he said, running his hands along the spines affectionately.

“Whatever you choose, sir,” Clover said.

“This one,” he said, pulling a thin volume out. “It’s a book of poetry. A small thing, easy enough to handle with some guidance.”

“Like me,” Clover said without even thinking.

Dalgo made a strangled choking sound and grasped the bookshelf for support, covering his mouth with his forearm. Clover stood frozen, not sure what was wrong. Was he offended? Was he hurt?

Then his shoulders were shaking. It started softly but quickly rose up like a river and she realised he was laughing. “Where did that come from?” he said.

Clover raised an eyebrow, amused at his amusement. “My mouth, like most of my words.”

Dalgo took his spectacles off and wiped his eyes. “Oh dear… I can’t remember the last time I laughed like that.”

“I don’t know if I like your sense of humour, sir,” Clover said.

* * *

_Though wind does blow_

_Air chokes with snow_

_And sun ‘neath hills doth bide_

_We will stay warm_

_Through rain and storm_

_On this Yuletide_

The Delvers were too many, and their smial too small, for them to stay in one room together for any length of time. But Yuletide was the exception and looking over the faces of the people she loved most, Meg knew this was where she belonged. All the chairs were taken up and others were sat on the arms of the settees or on the floor. Every inch of space was filled. Still there was one person missing. Meg had spent most of the afternoon watching the door, waiting for Clover to arrive. Eventually she had resigned herself to the reality that she wasn’t coming.

Traditionally there would be one gift given on each of the six days of Yuletide. While the Delvers seldom manged even this, this year there had only been able to receive one gift each through the entire period. On a Yuletide visit Mr Hobble had insisted that things would be better next year. He and others were sending letters to the Mayor about the trouble and he would sort everything out; shouldn’t take more than a few weeks. Mr Delver had said nothing, but looked grim. But for now the Delvers still had the songs and together their voices blended like the colours in a fine painting.

“Do we have to sing anymore songs?” Martin said, sighing and flopping backwards from his place on Mrs Delver’s knee.

“Not if you’re good,” Mr Delver said. “If you’re not we might make you go through a whole songbook.”

He squealed, wriggled down and ran to Rob, who was sat on the floor, his head lolled against the side of a settee.

“Can we go an’ play with my new hoop?”

Rob smiled wanly and ran a hand over Martin’s curls. “Later, lad.”

Rob had only been half-present for most of the festivities, sunk in some miasma of despondency that (to Meg’s knowledge) he had told no one the nature of.

Then Martin let out a whine and Rob, wincing slightly, heaved himself up and followed him outside, agreeing to watch Martin while he played. They were followed by the twins and part-way through the next song Jack snuck out without saying anything. Meg left the song’s end, anxious to see if Rob was all right.

She found Jack and Rob sat side by side on the lawn while Martin and the twins were running up and down on the road. Rob had a pipe in his mouth and was taking a long draw, his eyes closed with the indulgence.

“It was always going to end nasty,” Jack was saying. “Best for it to be now, afore you got too attached.”

Rob exhaled, letting a thick stream of smoke blow away from between his lips. He handed the pipe back to Jack and let his head sink down. “I’d forgotten how good smoke is,” he murmured.

“Where’d you get the leaf?” Meg said, settling down on Rob’s other side.

“None of your business,” Jack said from around the stem of his pipe.

She returned her attention to Rob, who was staring ahead blankly. “You want to talk about it?” she said.

“His lass’s finished with ‘im,” Jack said.

Meg ignored the twang of relief she felt upon hearing this news. “Oh, I’m sorry, lad,” she said.

“It was goin’ well,” Rob moaned.

“I know…”

“She promised she’d see me again when last I saw her. I don’t get it.”

“I thought all lasses were contrary like that,” Jack said.

Meg scowled at him. “We’re not animals, Jack, we don’t act without reason anymore’n you do.”

“But I can’t find a reason,” Rob said. “I keep thinking about everything over an’ over in my head an’ I don’t know what I did.”

Meg sighed. “She’ll have a reason, even if only she knows it. But you’ll probably never know so you’d be best not thinking about it. I know it’s hard, but you’ve gone through heartbreaks before, you’ll get through this one. You’re strong.”

“But before I always sort of knew things were coming to an end, or I wanted to end it myself. This was overnight. She weren’t even going to say goodbye.”

“She don’t deserve you,” Meg said, watching Martin and the twins.

Rob didn’t reply, then after a time got up and went inside, muttering something about his hands being cold.

“Poor sod,” Jack said, and sighed. “Don’t ever bother with lasses, Martin, they’ll bring you nothing but grief.”

* * *

Clover looked at her reflection, turning her head from side to side to better see her cheekbones, such as they were. Her face was too round for her liking. She laboriously removed the last of her hairpins and arranged her loose curls around her face. She didn’t often wear her hair loose. When it wasn’t done up in a neat bun for work, she usually kept it tied back for practicality’s sake.

Nothing was fair. Bad things happened to good people and people you loved could leave you in a ditch if it suited them. But Clover wasn’t enough on her own. She was stuck where she was without the good will of those who had power where she had nothing.

Abelia was the obvious choice; she seemed to be fascinated enough with Clover. But Abelia would only be able to take her so far. She was an unmarried tweenage lass with brothers who would inherit instead of her. There were ways in which cultivating a friendship with Abelia would be beneficial—Clover had already taken advantage of some of them—but they were nothing compared to the opportunities Dalgo could offer. He had a freedom and authority that Abelia would never have, especially not before her marriage.

It was night now and the only light she had to see by came from her own candle. She knocked on Dalgo’s door.

“Enter.”

She pushed the door open and leaned against the frame. Dalgo was sat at his desk, going over one of his father’s journals by the light of a single candle. He was still reading and hadn’t yet realised it was her.

“Dalgo?”

He looked up, and was immediately taken aback. His eyes flickered over her loose night dress. ‘Improper’ had probably been added to the list of words he thought best described her. He swallowed and recovered himself. “Miss Delver. How can I help you?”

She smiled gently. “I was returning that book for short stories you lent me when I had trouble sleeping.”

She held the book out at arm’s length. He accepted it timidly, like he was removing a mouse from the jaws of a wolf. “I hope you found it useful,” he mumbled, still visibly flustered.

“I did, thank you, sir,” she said softly. “You have fine taste, I could hardly stand to put it down. I’ll be sure to come to you again if I have any more trouble sleeping.”

Dalgo’s cheeks and ears flushed red. He cleared his throat and turned back down to the pages in front of him, shielding his face from her. “I’m glad it was of use. Good night, Miss Delver.”

Knowing it was time to back down, she closed the door. No longer under observation, Clover smiled secretly. Yes. Mr Grubb could be very useful indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They say if you stand in a darkened room and say the words ‘Bloody Gollum’ three times into a mirror he will appear, hit you over the head with a big stick and steal your fish.


End file.
